


petrol station receipts

by niemi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Happy Ending, Insomniac Harry Potter, M/M, Post-War, Road Trips, Slow Burn, technically they aren't enemies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niemi/pseuds/niemi
Summary: Draco had accepted long ago that he and Potter were cordial colleagues, at best. Then, they are assigned to the same complex case and find themselves tangled within an elaborate scheme of dark magic.Somewhere between the late nights and long road trips, Draco falls further than he'd ever intended.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Case 341

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few content warnings and notes to make:  
> 1\. The case revolves around a group of dangerous individuals, labelled as a cult. Note that there are no graphic descriptions, but please be warned if this may affect you.  
> 2\. I have never been to Dartmoor National Park - the south scares me - so my descriptions are likely to be quite inaccurate. Apologies to any resident readers.  
> 3\. I do not support JKR nor her transphobic views and I stand with the trans community. This hadn't been mentioned on any of my other works, it was about time it was.

Potter meant nothing to him.

Draco reminded himself of that simple fact as the man himself came sauntering into the office. He might as well have been carrying the decapitated head of the next evil tyrant, for the entire office jumped to its feet with a raucous cheer. Even the bloody portraits were saluting Potter. Draco scowled.

By now, Draco was quite indifferent to the ridiculous spectacle. All Potter had to do was fire a half-accurate hex at a mildly threatening squirrel and everybody in the forsaken vicinity began a round of applause, even rising to a standing ovation on one occasion. Everybody except Potter’s friends, Draco, and Juniper Fletcher.

As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for Draco catching Fletcher’s equally unimpressed look from across the office in moments like these, he might have lost the will to continue a long time ago. He was a consultant, for Merlin’s sake; he was _not_ a paid extra in The Potter Show.

“Juniper?” Draco’s exchange of sarcastic looks with his favourite colleague was cut off as Potter approached her, a wave of admirers physically restraining themselves from following. “Kingsley wants a word on Case 341.”

Fletcher rose from her chair and nodded. “Sure, I’ll head to his office now.”

“Oh, and take Malfoy with you - this is probably within his area of expertise.”

If it wasn’t for his bitter case of pride, Draco would thank Potter himself for exiling him from the office. There were too many adoring gazes for a Tuesday afternoon and Draco’s patience had already been reduced to the strength of a Phoenix feather when the new mail owl had knocked his coffee mug over three times (in the span of ten minutes!). The blasted things had only returned as a temporary measure during the Ministry reformation, but it looked like they were sticking around for a while longer. 

“Of course. Draco!” Fletcher not so subtly glared, beckoning him over.

Potter’s gaze landed on him lightly, looking tired and distant but still so darn Potter-ish.

It was those glasses, they were unsuited to the new mature face that their precious saviour had grown into sometime after the war - somewhere in the space of time between saving Draco from an excruciating existence behind cold, unforgiving bars and Draco’s recruitment at the Ministry. Potter really ought to invest in another pair of glasses; maybe then he wouldn’t remind Draco so much of the war-torn kid he saw lying in Hagrid’s arms. Maybe then, he wouldn’t look so chillingly young after all these years.

Draco knew it was unnatural that they were colleagues, bound by labour contracts to slave away at desks in the same room.

He knew he shouldn’t overhear office chatter; he shouldn’t hear the latest dating rumours swirling around Potter before the Prophet had even heard a whisper. He shouldn’t know who kept eating Potters lunch out of the staff kitchen, although he did find it highly amusing when Potter tore apart the kitchen trying to find his blasted containers of questionably flavoured sandwiches.

He shouldn’t see Potter turn up late after a long night at the pub, looking worse for wear and his glasses hanging crookedly on his nose. Draco should not see Potter’s exhaustion when they’re the only ones left in the office on a particularly late Wednesday night.

Did anyone have _Potter and Malfoy become cordial colleagues_ on their post-war bingo cards?

“Earth to Draco?” Fletcher tugged on his elbow as they left the office and walked down the long corridor. They’d redecorated this summer, swapping the neutral colours for some appalling spiral wallpaper – Michaels in Muggle relations probably suggested it,

“I see the department still worships the sun that shines out of Potter’s arse,” Draco answered instead of igniting a normal conversation with a co-worker.

Fletcher rolled her eyes in muted agreement. She had been uttering quiet noises of complaint about the department’s severe case of favouritism and unconcealed bias since she was transferred in a year ago. And thank Merlin she was, Draco clung to her sarcasm as a lifeline during the work week.

“It’s been five fucking years since the end of the war, you know?” Draco continued with indignation as Fletcher fixed him with a pained expression, which read ‘ _Everybody knows that_ , _you pompous twat’_. “Usually the fame would wear off after all that time, but alas Potter still holds the nation’s hearts in his hands. Did you see that five-page feature that the Prophet printed on Sunday? Most of it wasn’t even true!”

“No, I didn’t, Draco…” Fletcher drawled, rearranging the files she clutched against her chest. “I don’t pay as much attention to Harry as you do.”

“Hey! I do not pay him that much--!” Draco began to argue, but Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office door had opened, and he halted. “Forget it. Good morning, sir.”

Shacklebolt looked depleted at best. He seemed more worn-out each day that passed, his half-hearted smile diminishing from each departmental meeting to the next. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care too much though, it was the Head Auror’s fault for the huge workload he deposited upon himself. It seemed to only ever be Potter who too noticed the man’s exhaustion.

“Morning, Miss Fletcher, Mr Malfoy. Come in, come in.”

They filed in, Fletcher taking the lead to place her files on the corner of Shacklebolt’s desk, and perched on his two guest chairs, feeling out of place.

Fletcher looked nervous. She, too, had made a number of mistakes during the war – hardly on the Malfoy scale of atrocities – but enough to evict her from society for the cooling period afterwards. So, much alike Draco, she didn’t quite belong in a role like hers, in a place like this – even if she wasn’t weighed down by the stigma of being a Slytherin. Draco was the sole one in their department, in fact. Although, it was never held against him – the ex-Death Eater label seemed to be enough.

“Auror Potter said you wanted a word, sir? How can we be of assistance?” Fletcher asked, her fingers twisted in the fabric of her robes.

“Yes, that’s right. Are you both well?” Shacklebolt asked with genuineness stained in his kind eyes. And Draco hadn’t met him until long after the war, but he could tell they had always been that way – _good_.

“Yes, sir,” Draco and Fletcher answered automatically, shifting slightly in their seats now that the pleasantries were handled.

“Good, you might be looking at a few late nights in the upcoming months. You will both be assisting Mr Potter on the Dartmoor Forest Cult case. I want it dealt with as quickly and discreetly as possible.” Kingsley said, leaning forward on his desk, still looking ever the most intimidating guy on the entire floor despite the exhaustion. “You are not to share any of the details with your colleagues nor anybody else, this is highly confidential. Is that understood?

Fletcher nodded silently, her gaze dropping to her lap under the watchful eye of their boss. Draco held his ground, maintaining eye contact. “Understood, sir.”

“This will be a sensitive case, I’ll warn you. It may take several months to dismantle the group, if needed, and gather the required evidence.” Shacklebolt grimaced slightly, “I have no doubt you three are capable of closing the case.”

There was a short silence, as Shacklebolt mulled over his thoughts and pushed off his desk to pace up and down the width of his office.

“Mr Potter will be reporting to me on a fortnightly basis and he will be briefing you.” Shacklebolt looked as though he was going to say more but restrained himself. His eyes narrowed slightly in Draco’s direction instead. “I expect full professionalism for the duration of the case. You’re both dismissed.”

“Sir.” Draco stood, and bowed his head. Fletcher imitated him, on his tail as they left the room.

They walked the corridor without a word, lost in their own thoughts. Fletcher, the Ravenclaw of the pair, was undoubtedly already running through the case facts in her mind – slotting the puzzle pieces together as though it was a two by two jigsaw. Draco, meanwhile, was forecasting everything that would push Potter’s and his strained civility to its limitations. Seeing each other before the first coffee of the day, for instance, could derail the previous five years of seemingly neutral ground they’d found.

“This is going to be an utter trainwreck,” Draco said as they pushed through the office door.

Fletcher snorted and then, as though he had been waiting for their return, Potter caught their eyes.

Scratch out Draco’s earlier statement. This might be catastrophic.

}{

It wasn’t an overcomplicated case, although cults were never simple. They were interwoven with complex theologies and ties of loyalty. They could be dark, they could be harmless. The Dartmoor Forest case seemed to be anything but.

The three of them had been allocated their own room, a few doors down from the packed Auror office. Draco was glad to have the space to breathe, he had enough room to pace behind his desk without rustling the feathers of his usual neighbouring co-workers. He’d learnt that wasn’t wise given his social status.

Not that he’d be pacing whilst Potter was in the room. Although, now would be a wonderful opportunity to do so as Potter provided all the details on the case that had been above Draco’s and Fletcher’s clearance until now. It would all sink in a little quicker if Draco could move, but he remained in his seat, staring at his page of notes as Potter’s voice grated on his ears.

The cult was nameless as far as they knew. The department had managed to pick up some malicious whispers and chatter over the past few months, mere suggestions offered by other case suspects they’d brought in for questioning, who were desperate for an inch of leeway. There was nothing significant to evidence the rumours, the chatter was merely static on an undercurrent of the overall black market.

Enough information had been gathered to suggest the group practiced dark magic, following what muggles called black magic rituals, and rumours suggested it was _far_ from harmless. Its victims so far had been a handful of injured sheep and a single escaped convict – the latter of which had lived to tell the tale, only missing three fingers and a toe after the incident.

The police force couldn’t find a scrap of evidence to support any claims they might have conceived from the convict’s jumbled ramblings. Only one witch, integrated within the police, needed to step into the crime scene to detect the overwhelming dark magic that resided in the area and alert the Ministry.

And here they were, apparently the finest the Ministry had to offer: Auror Potter and his two consultants. What a striking trio.

“—We’ve already discussed this, Potter,” Draco interrupted when Potter began repeating a redundant point he’d made ten minutes prior. “It’s unlikely that there is some evil mastermind at the centre of this group. This could be a large group of highly competent wizards, as the complex charms imply. We shouldn’t dismiss them as a gang of deluded followers with a psychotic leader.”

“Right, Malfoy, because I was under the impression that all dark wizards were deluded followers.” Potter responded quickly, fixing him with an irritated and pointed look.

“It seems,” Fletcher piped up, looking between the men, “That it could be a single individual rather than an entire group.”

“No, our police agent specifically noted that there were multiple magical signatures.” Potter said, dragging his hands down his face. “They couldn’t be sure, but there were at least ten or fifteen. This could be a mere branch of the larger organisation too.”

Potter had the same tired look as Shacklebolt, Draco noticed after begrudgingly watching him speak for the past hour. They both carried the weight of the world on their backs, stupid fools. With all they’d done, they should be solely caring for themselves – unlike the _sinners_ like Draco and his type, who were destined to prove their worth for the rest of time…

“Do we know whether they’re living in the forest?” Draco asked, drawing a line across his parchment to begin a new section of notes. “If not, these wizards and witches could be within wizarding society, or indeed the Ministry.”

Fletcher rifled through her file, skimming the pages before she found what she was looking for. “The agent said there was evidence of habitation in the surrounding forest, including warding charm residue and… the remains of multiple large birds.”

“For now then, we should assume they’ve remained within the same area.” Potter said, pulling off his outer robes to reveal denim jeans and a scruffy (and perhaps unwashed) t-shirt. Hardly the professionalism Shacklebolt had insisted; Draco and Fletcher both wore full suits beneath their robes, although Draco’s was more noticeably tailored.

“And suppose these individuals have infiltrated the Ministry?” Draco asked sharply.

“Well, as long as neither of you are one such individual, then we should have no trouble finding them once the group has been dismantled.” Potter answered nonchalantly, throwing the subtle implication of trust down as a gauntlet.

Draco picked it up, metaphorically, and lifted his chin. “Don’t worry about that, Potter. Fletcher and I are as clean as they come.”

Fletcher caught his eye and sniggered, but Potter only rolled his eyes, not rising to the dangling bait.

“Get to work, the both of you.” He said instead. “I’m going to grab some lunch. Don’t cause any trouble.”

Draco reluctantly pulled himself together for a spot of research, but he caught Potter leaving out the corner of his eye. He swore there was a light smile floating on Potter’s lips.

It must have been a trick of the light.

}{

The first week was a nightmare.

Fletcher and Draco were well-acquainted with the gruelling task of trawling through dozens and dozens of books in sought of a single scrap of information; they’d spent many a long night searching for a hint of a lead in ancient texts, only for it to be a dead end.

But this is what their adequate salaries were designated for: reading, researching, advising and never, ever, getting their hands dirty again.

In fact, Draco had been recruited by Shacklebolt in the Summer of ’99 under the terms of his probation to assist in a single case. It revolved around the illegal dealing of a newly mutated chemical compound with magical traces, that had resulted in the death of several high-ranking muggle officials. He was told it was complicated, his work would be unpaid and constrained to a desk with constant supervision. Apparently, Shacklebolt suspected he would know a few of the criminals behind the operation.

He did.

Draco still solved the case in a third of the usual time.

He was roped in for a few more unusual cases, the kind that the Ministry’s bone headed Aurors couldn’t wrap their simple minds around, and he set a standard. Draco became the department’s first official consultant, his work primarily based at home where he could remain within the legality of his house arrest for the remainder of his probation. Once the term had ended, he was thrust into an office of Death Eater hating colleagues. But at least he was on the payroll and could begin refilling his sparce vault at Gringotts…

Until Potter finished his training a few months later and Draco’s work life deteriorated further. At the beginning, he’d hoped that Potter’s fellow aurors would be too distracted with the shining smile of their stupid savour that the abuse towards Draco would lessen. He was wrong. If anything, it egged them on, being able to compare the remarkable achievements of the Boy Who Lived Twice to the Dark Lord’s former housemate.

Eventually, Draco’s thick skin outlived his colleagues’ perseverance and he proved himself worthy of at least a shred of their respect, with the speed that he solved cases. Back then, all he had to do was gather the evidence, write a thorough report, and send the aurors to a specific location for a straightforward arrest or two.

Nowadays, the criminals were beginning to outsmart his quick-thinking. That was where Fletcher came in handy. She was as sharp as Draco, equally critical, and perhaps more analytical too. She was the fourth consultant that Draco had seen float in and out of her position since he began, but she was the current record holder – none of her predecessors had lasted half as long.

“These books are useless!” She declared resolutely, slumping onto her forearms and resting her fringe against the desk. “This is all pointless if we don’t have the opportunity to observe the group in action. We have absolutely no clue what they’re doing or why.”

“We need to track them first,” Draco remarked, chewing the edge of his quill. “Ideally, a trip to the crime scene would be more productive than anything we can achieve in this office.”

“I agree,” Potter said as he sauntered into the office, and Draco had to stop his jaw from slackening. He never thought he’d hear Potter of all people agree with him.

“You…what?” Draco uttered, barely above a mutter.

“We should visit the crime scene. The police have removed all their evidence and it’s no longer under observation. So, we should go and scope out the place.” Potter said, shedding his outer robes on his chair before he settled into it, kicking his legs onto the corner of his desk.

It was bare, aside from a couple of reports Fletcher had put together in the past five days. Draco hadn’t seen him read a single letter of them – inconsiderate prick.

“I’ve already got approval from Kingsley for a three-day visit.” Potter continued, his gaze floating lazily between them. His eye bags were particularly prominent today. “So, as long as neither of you have any plans this weekend…?”

Wait a minute. Draco’s mouth dropped open to spout an outraged rant about the work hours that their contracts specifically outlined (not that Draco didn’t put overtime _during_ the work week regardless), but then Fletcher shook her head at Potter in response. Draco aggressively folded his arms, swallowing the outburst that could cost him a job when it was directed at Harry Potter.

“I suppose I can rearrange my busy schedule if necessary.” He answered, staring Potter down with a displeased frown.

“Brilliant.” Potter said, ignoring Draco’s mental daggers and smiled at Fletcher. “I’ll send you both the details by tomorrow.”


	2. the minibus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Implied insomnia

On Friday morning, they met at one of the Ministry’s stations in – what Draco had recently understood to be colloquially known as – zone four of London, specifically in the south-west, between Twickenham and Richmond.

Well, Fletcher and Draco met on time, standing like idiots outside the building, Potter was nowhere to be seen.

That was until he rolled up in an abomination and stuck his head out of the large, black car-like contraption. Draco supposed muggles would consider it to be sleek and modern, but it remained a monstrosity in his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was a nightmare getting out of central London!”

“Potter. What is _that_?”

Potter parked up fully on the edge of the road, receiving a few loud beeps from cars passing by – no doubt for his shocking parking – and climbed out the car, dropping a good foot’s length to the ground.

He shrugged. “A minibus. Ready to go?”

Draco stared in disbelief. They were wizards, they could apparate in a matter of seconds to their destination that was several _counties_ away, and Potter had brought this… thing?

Fletcher had no qualms about their method of transport; she had integrated herself into London’s muggle society almost immediately after the war and was probably as adept with these mechanical monsters as she was with the awful Tube.

Potter pulled open a door that seemed to roll open along the length of the abomination and gestured to take a seat. Fletcher easily climbed in, slinging herself in one of the seats near the front.

“Oh no. I’m sitting in the front. I don’t trust you to operate this ghastly machine without supervision.”

“Malfoy.” Potter said pointedly, rolling his eyes and silently transmitting a message of ‘ _Seriously?!_ ’.

“Definitely the front,” Draco repeated, watching as Potter slid that door closed, and he walked around to the other side of the ‘ _minibus’_ and into the oncoming torrent of cars. He tugged on what he supposed opened the door and clambered into the car in time for a passing vehicle to screech its machine and send an excessively loud horn sound at him.

The interior was much nicer than the outside, Draco decided, as he settled into a leather seat and laid his bag at his feet. There was a long, smooth platform of grey plastic opposite him, which connected to the large window that he could stare out.

“Malfoy, you need to put your seatbelt on.” Potter said and upon Draco’s look of confusion, indicated to the strip of fabric he’d wrapped across his chest and slotted into some sort of locking mechanism. “Fine, don’t. Die then.”

Malfoy not so discretely yanked the belt and inelegantly smashed it against the red mechanism until he heard a click.

“Right – it’s a long drive to Devon so buckle up. We’ll probably stop once or twice for lunch and some petrol. Any questions?”

Fletcher shook her head behind them and Draco followed suit, despite the hundreds of objections and dignified questions he had.

“Perfect. Any music preferences?”

They set off, Potter’s hands clutching a circular, cushioned pipe of sorts as the car’s engine roared to life. Draco had read that much about the muggles’ preferred means of transport – for his own safety really – but he still couldn’t quite figure out how the thing worked. They were propelled forward, merging into the rest of the cars with ease, with a constant tremor that must stem from the engine he’d read about.

He hadn’t even quizzed Potter yet about the insane reasons they weren’t travelling by portkey or the floo or standard old Apparition. All in all, Draco was a little too bewildered to comprehend it.

“Wait a minute, Potter.” He suddenly said, slamming his hand down on the seat between him and Potter. “You said you-you _drove_ in from Central London. Why the flying f-f-flobberworm didn’t you pick us up from the Ministry headquarters?”

Draco supposed swearing wasn’t upmost professionalism, not least at an Auror.

“I almost got into three car crashes just trying to get here, Malfoy – none of which were caused by my driving. If you’d seen that, I think you would’ve jumped out the window by now.” Potter responded, not taking his eyes off the road.

He was probably right. Draco hardly felt safe here, surrounded by muggles in their death traps. From the glimpses he’d seen of the driving in the centre of London, Draco would rather risk his life on the outskirts. Not that it seemed to be much better; there were car horns blaring ahead, behind and to the side and cars skimming each other with inches to spare.

“Why _are_ we even taking this thing? Wizards are capable of much faster transportation, you must know. Unless you take the blasted Tube to work every day too.” Draco rooted his argument to another pet peeve of his: the London Underground, crammed with sweaty muggles and Fletcher, on occasion.

“I do, actually. Well, some days.” Potter said, his tone level and devoid of emotion. “I can’t claim it’s anymore efficient than apparition, but it does the job.”

Draco folded his arms, shifting against the seatbelt. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Fine, the van is also doubling as our lodgings for the duration of the trip.” Potter said simply, his fingers drumming against the steering circle. “A quick extension charm and we’re set for the two nights.”

That, Draco admitted, was a relatively reasonable explanation. They could have, still, stayed at a hotel or found their own accommodations perhaps. Draco himself had been eyeing up a particularly well-rated hotel in the area. The department was covering expenses after all. But it was unfortunately Potter’s call at the end of the day.

So, even if Potter was determined to trap himself with a former Death Eater in expanded yet confined lodgings for two nights, that wasn’t Draco’s problem.

“Is a luxury hotel too basic for the great Harry Potter?” Draco laid the bait, waiting for Potter to step in his snare, to snap back with the boyish bitterness Draco knew.

“This is a work trip, not a holiday, Malfoy.” Potter answered firmly instead, and that was it. No hint of annoyance, only firmness.

“I second that!” Fletcher called from behind, and Draco turned to see her emerge from the latest edition of the Quibbler. “Will we be compensated for our overtime, Harry?”

“Really, Fletcher? The Quibbler?” Draco interjected.

“It has some interesting articles. They aren’t far off with their theory about the Fodger Giant Uprising in Thailand!”

“No, you have a huge crush on Luna Lovegood.” Draco said, and when Fletcher opened her mouth with denial printed upon her expression, he added, “Don’t deny it! She’s the new editor and I’ve seen you not-so-subtly pick up a copy every month since her promotion.”

“Hey! Luna is a talented writer and active advocate in the fight for feminism, _sure_ , but I don’t have a schoolgirl crush on her.” Fletcher argued back, her eyebrows knitted together. “You don’t know shit, Draco – oh, sorry, Harry. I’ll watch my language.”

“Liar,” Draco muttered under his breath as he pulled his arms tighter against his chest and slumped a little further against his window.

Potter cleared his throat, drawing the attention inadvertently. “Yes, Juniper. Overtime will be paid; Kingsley is handling it.”

“Good.” She replied, sticking her tongue out at Draco before she disappeared back into the pages of her obsession.

The music floating from some sort of radio in the centre became the only sound within the interior of the minibus. It was muggle music, strange tunes and raspy vocals repeating in different versions.

Draco stared out of the window as they drove the final miles out of London. He watched as office buildings and shops gave way to houses in the suburbs and bungalows until they gave way to a higher concentration of parks and fences. They travelled along wide roads until they were surrounded by only cars and trees, huge trees that were cut back but clearly twice the size of their minibus.

The minibus itself didn’t throw up any complaints like a thestral or a badly charmed broom might – they could’ve even travelled by _broom_ and brought along one of those extendable tents that the vendors in Diagon Alley seemed so persistent to sell to him. ‘The Saviour used our most popular extendable tent in the fight against You Know Who!’ they shouted at Draco as he passed through weekly, ‘Get your highly reviewed tent from Milligan’s, endorsed by the Boy Who Lived himself! Half price for a limited time only!’.

They trundled along slowly, constrained by what seemed to be limits on their speed – signposted in big red circles or a particularly strange symbol in black and white that had Potter sharply speeding up.

Potter looked relaxed in his role, their lives at sake, his tanned hands wrapped sturdily around that wheel. His left hand occasionally dropped to a short, lumpy stick that was protruding vertically out of the elevated platform that separated their legs and shifted it into a new place, but his hands primarily stayed in the same place, moving up and down the wheel.

It was peculiar, this silence between him and Potter as they shared a confined space. The only other instance that matched these circumstances was those late nights they both sometimes spent in the office, poring over their individual work at the opposite ends of the room. Neither ever spoke. Draco nearly always left first, prioritising his sleep over whatever overtime wage he might be paid at the end of the month.

Potter stayed, and turned up to work the very next day, rings under his eyes and marginally late as he always was. He never failed in this routine. Draco looked across at him now, for a moment, to see the fatigue lining Potter’s features and wondered if every night was spent in that mildly dusty office with no company.

Not even Draco, in his efforts to punish himself for his past mistakes when other people stopped, put himself through the draining cruelty of working overtime more than twice a week. He left at 5 pm on the dot every other day, catching up with Fletcher as they left for the apparition point together, and didn’t cast a glance at Potter.

Potter’s problems were his own, after all. And he meant nothing to Draco.

“I’m just going to pop into the services.” Potter said into the air sometime after they’d passed a town called Andover. 

Draco didn’t understand what that meant, where they were going to ‘pop into’, but he maintained his grip on the handle on the door and waited. The minibus was steered off the loud, busy motorway (another word Draco had picked up from the signs), and it veered around a sharp turn until it pulled to a stop under a large shelter. There was a strange contraption besides the unusual parking spot Potter had chosen.

“Hey, Juniper. Can you go pay?” Potter asked, holding a few flaps of thin paper over his shoulder. “It’s pump number five. You can grab some snacks if you like. Oh, and remember to grab the receipt!”

Draco watched them with an unimpressed expression. What even was this place? Some kind of refuelling station, he could guess. Muggles clearly weren’t that smart if they couldn’t invent a piece of transport technology that didn’t require a fuel source yet.

A weird clunk noise knocked through the car and Draco gripped the seat, looking quickly around to find the source. He could see Potter at the rear of the vehicle, staring meaningfully at the side of the minibus, and there was some sort of whoosh from whatever he was playing at. Perhaps, he was feeding the vehicle explosives and it would spontaneously combust before they even reached Devon. Perhaps, it was harmless.

Draco never trusted anything Potter touched to be harmless. He had a long list of references to back him up.

But Potter was climbing back into the driver’s seat before long, wiping his hands on the denim jeans to which he seemed to be emotionally attached.

“What is this place?” Draco asked hesitantly, still eyeing the back of the vehicle as the engine jumped to life again.

“A petrol station,” Potter answered as though Draco was a fool. “We wouldn’t get very far at all without refuelling.”

“We would if we travelled by portkey.”

Potter rolled his eyes. He did that a lot; it was getting on Draco’s nerves.

Fletcher pulled the side door open with a clunk and hurried inside.

“That cashier was a judgemental cow, he kept staring at my hair like I was a teenage delinquent. I’m twenty-five fucking years old – oh, sorry, Harry. Language.” She leant forward and through the gap in the front seats. “Here’s your change, and the receipt.”

Fletcher dropped a number of silver and gold coins into Potter’s open palm, followed by a white strip of paper with ink printed into it. 

“Thanks, Juniper. Did you buy any snacks? I’d kill for a chocolate bar right now.” Potter said, meeting Draco’s eyes at precisely the inappropriate time and yanking his gaze away.

“Here you go.” Fletcher passed over something wrapped in coloured plastic and nudged Draco with another. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I went with the safe bet.”

Draco peered down at the writing on the packaging as he accepted the food from Fletcher. _Cadbury Dairy Milk_ , it read. Potter was smiling at it, ripping away the plastic to take a bite from the chocolate within.

“You’re a star, Juniper. Thanks.”

“No problem, Harry.”

And Draco, rather annoyed by all this casual name tossing, took an aggressive bite of his chocolate and stared out the front window. “Are we leaving then?”

“One second.” Harry shoved the rest of the bar into his mouth, cramming it to the brim and chewed in the most undignified way. He nodded and his voice came through muffled as he said, “Ok, let’s go. Three hours remaining.”

They set off once more, sliding back onto the same road as before and gaining speed with a dissatisfactory rate. Draco settled once more into his seat, arms crossed and eyes out the window. He saw more cars than he expected to see in a lifetime down this endless strip of road.

Potter eased the minibus into each lane, moving with more speed once they’d earned a place in the inner lane, before he moved back to their original position on the far right, and seemed unperturbed about the steady stream of vehicles around them. Draco stared in muted awe at the large containers on wheels that trundled down at some significant speed besides them; sometimes as they passed by, their entire world dimmed for a handful of second before the sun emerged once more from behind the metal giants.

The minutes ticked by, morphing into an hour and then another. They stopped at another ‘services’ for a toilet trip, but Draco stayed put. The last thing he needed was to spend a minute too long in the toilet and discover they’d left him behind. He could perfectly imagine Potter’s gleeful expression as they left him in the dust.

So, he waited for his colleagues to return. They did, miraculously not having procured another form of transport, and carried armfuls of packaged food. Potter struggled to pull the door open, but once he did, the pile was deposited next to Draco.

Draco couldn’t see the muggle obsession with this plastic material, but he begrudgingly dug into a sandwich for lunch following Fletcher’s insistent prompting. They were driving again before he knew it, Potter nibbling on what he called a sausage roll as he drove precariously with a single hand on the wheel.

Then, they were trundling into Dartmoor National Park and Draco was overcome with relief. He couldn’t wait to step out of this death trap and find his land legs again.

Potter appeared to know exactly where he was heading, as they headed down much narrower roads than before, flocked by tall trees. They passed numerous towns and villages, as well as camping sites galore. The minibus soared over bridges, crossing the channels where weak streams and eroding rivers ran, and passed fields of cows and horses and sheep. Their calls to one other broke through the windows, bleats and neighs from all directions.

A glance backwards showed Fletcher staring out the window with wide eyes. Draco considered that he had never asked where Fletcher grew up and judging by her reaction, it hadn’t been in the countryside like Draco’s upbringing. Although, it hadn’t quite been the true countryside, rather a large estate to roam.

“Here we are,” Potter remarked as he rolled to a stop in a roadside parking bay. He pulled a long lever upwards and the engine fizzed off.

Potter and Fletcher were already out the minibus and staring across the road with their hands on their hips by the time Draco had figured out the seatbelt’s unlocking mechanism. He yelped as it sprung free, gaining the attention of the other two.

He climbed quickly out of the vehicle, dropping to his unsteady feet. Solid ground, thank Salazar. Draco could kiss it: gravel, chippings, and all.

“The crime scene is this way,” Potter said, extending his arm to point across the road with a frown. “Coming, Malfoy?”

Draco straightened up, removing his gaze from the stable ground that held him fixed in place. “Right, yes.”

He quickly followed behind Fletcher as they crossed the road and ambled into the thick forest that met them on the road’s edge. Potter trudged straight into it as though it was his day job – actually, Draco supposed it was. Unless the Aurors were privileged to be under Draco’s guidance, they often wandered into the unknown and got themselves hurt. Potter seemed to have the worst track record of them all.

Fletcher and he shared an uncertain look before they followed Potter’s lead.

The three of them walked deeper and deeper into the forest, along a lightly marked path that had been moulded by footfall. The trees grew taller and wilder, the roots were stuck out of the ground at awkward angles as they looped back to the trunks. Draco stepped through it all, glad to be wearing the most durable pair of boots he owned.

The forest split into a more obvious clearing after a further three hundred yards. There was evidence of muggles trampling all over the place, no doubt the police Potter had mentioned. But there were scraps of yellow tape that suggested they were in the correct place, as well as a long dead fire in the centre of the clearing and a vague scent of basic maintenance magic.

Then, a wave of dark magic washed over Draco as he stepped over the threshold. It must’ve affected the other two in a similar way; they both shivered, unable to combat the chilling feeling that trickled down their spines.

The scene looked stripped of all useful clues, but they silently set to work anyway, splitting off in separate directions to track down the subtlest of hints that might assist the investigation.

Several hours were spent ransacking the surrounding perimeter for any dormant traces of magic that might just offer a clue to the group’s location. Nothing was found, besides a few mangled rabbits in the hollow of a tree and a faint smell of blood that was probably emanating from the rabbits.

Fletcher and Draco carried out some diagnostic spells, trying to analyse the exact magic used. Little success. The only category they could place the magic remnants under was _dark magic_ and that was hardly any use in a world where plenty of Dark Lord supporters were still hiding in the shadows.

If only they’d attended the crime scene in the first few days following the incident. Why hadn’t they attended the crime scene earlier?

“Potter!” Draco suddenly called out, his voice carrying over the hundred-yard distance to its intended recipient. “Why wasn’t this case investigated _three weeks ago_? The remaining magic is so old that it’s essentially useless!”

Potter shrugged.

“Red tape,” He answered as though that explained everything, and continued rummaging through a nearby bush. There were twigs knotted in his hair and he looked quite uncivilised.

Draco huffed and returned to the tree trunk he’d been examining. There were runes carved into the bottom, looped in circles around the tree, and they looked familiar. He couldn’t quite place them, they drifted meaninglessly around his mind, seeking their rightful home.

So, he carved out the outer layer of bark of the tree and peeled it off, walking around the tree to gather the full circle of writing.

“Have you found anything worthwhile yet?” Fletcher appeared at his shoulder, peering down at the bark in his hands. She frowned. “What’s that?”

“These runes were on the tree. Do you recognise the script?” Draco asked, handing over the evidence. “It’s rather strange for them to be carved into a single tree. Magic rituals typically involve a specifically outlined area, where the incantation takes place.”

“Oh, oh!” Fletcher jumped on the spot before grabbing Draco’s wrist and yanking him towards the sun. “I think I saw these runes somewhere over here on an oak tree… where were they? Around here somewhere… aha!”

She tugged him over to a stump of tree, only a foot of the pre-existing tree jutted out of the ground. It was covered in a dark green moss, but Fletcher wiped it away with her sleeve. Similar runes emerged in the bark, wrapping around the circumference of the tree.

“I thought it was some harmless graffiti but it’s not, is it?”

“Perhaps not… Potter!” Draco shouted through the woods and the Auror appeared from behind a distant tree with a deep-set frown. “We’ve found something.”

Potter jogged over, the wind tousling his hair to an even more dire state. “What is it?”

“These runes – Draco and I have found them on two trees in the area.” Fletcher explained, her fingers tracing the symbols. “There must be more somewhere. It would suggest the group had prepared some sort of ancient warding system, maybe to hide them from passers-by.”

“Do either of you recognise them?” Potter asked, his grubby fingers reaching out to borrow the strips from Fletcher and stared down at them. He didn’t take Ancient Runes though; he wouldn’t have a clue.

Draco shook his head slowly and Fletcher did the same. The symbols still looked familiar, but there were hundreds of decryption spells he’d have to try to pinpoint the language being used. The theory he’d been taught at school was just the beginning. Runes from thousands of years ago could be traced back to specific branches of magic, each with their own complicated etymologies.

“I can research it once we get back to the Ministry.” Draco offered.

“Great. Let’s focus today’s investigation on finding any similar markings, ok? We’ve only got an hour of daylight left.”

Potter split off in the same direction he’d come, crouching as he passed each tree and climbing over their extravagant roots. Meanwhile, Fletcher and Draco focussed their attention in a similar location after discussing the most likely formation of the warding.

In old times, magic of this kind was used to create specific shapes and generate natural wards. So, the odds were that the two trees they’d found were part of a larger geometric shape – the more lines, the greater the strength of magic… in theory.

It was promising when they only found one more point. Potter flailed his arms from a distance and beckoned them over to a narrow tree that had the same symbols engraved into the bark. He stood proudly besides his discovery, although his subtle smile quickly dissipated into a frown as Draco began muttering some quick diagnostic spells.

There was no obvious magic tied into the scripture.

Although, the trees did indeed mark out an obvious shape, as he’d suspected. An equilateral triangle. Perhaps the group didn’t have as much magical ability as Draco had feared.

He peeled off the bark to take it back for study.

“Are we finished for today, Harry?” Fletcher asked, pulling a chocolate bar out of her pocket and taking a large bite. “I’m starved.”

“Yeah, all right.” Potter agreed, brushing off his trousers. “Let’s head back to the van.”

Thank Merlin. Draco wasn’t exactly the type to spend his nights rummaging through dark forests.

}{

By the time they’d made it back to minibus, the sun was hanging precariously on the horizon, already hidden behind the thick forest which surrounded them.

Potter unlocked the back of the minibus, tossing Fletcher her bag, before he began casting a charm on the interior. It appeared to be a standard Undetectable Extension Charm.

“Malfoy, can you set up some concealment charms to hide the minibus? Stick a few wards around us too. We don’t want any muggles crashing into us while we sleep.” Potter asked as he focused on the extension charm.

Draco narrowed his eyes, “Why do we need—?"

“It’s not exactly legal to stay overnight on the roadside,” Potter said as he moved his wand slowly from left to right.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, so Draco didn’t say a word a further; he’d rather Potter get the charm spot on, so that the interior didn’t collapse inwards during the night, than provide a snarky comment.

Draco quietly prepared the van’s concealment, watching Fletcher munch on her snacks out of the corner of his eye. It took another five minutes to complete the charm and locate any blind spots he’d missed. Potter finished at a similar time, vanishing through the back of the minibus, and shouting through, his voice distant.

“You can come in!”

Fletcher led the way upon Draco’s prompting, and they both emerged into a large space with low hanging lamps. There was a couple of desks in the distant corner, propped against three neatly lined up twin beds. A sofa was sat in the near left, facing a small kitchen and its adjoining dining space.

Draco was silently impressed. Perhaps those Diagon Alley vendors hadn’t been lying about Potter’s experience with extendable tents.

“Any volunteers to cook dinner?” Potter asked from over his shoulder as he unpacked a number of files onto the desks.

It was Fletcher who drew the short straw and it was safe to say, when they settled down to eat half an hour later, that she was potentially the best cook out of a bad bunch. Draco chewed through the slightly uncooked pasta and smiled half-heartedly at Fletcher’s expectant look.

“Fuck off, Draco. I know it tastes like crup shit,” She snapped with a roll of her eyes. Draco laughed without thinking. “Oh, gosh, sorry, Harry. I’ll really watch my language from now onwards.”

“Juniper…” Potter looked up from his own bowl. “I really don’t give a shit about your language.”

“Marvellous.” Fletcher exhaled with relief. “I guess this is an appropriate time to warn you that I sleep-swear?”

Draco snorted. He hadn’t had the honour to hear Fletcher’s muttered cursing in her sleep, but she’d told him countless embarrassing stories over their lunchtime coffees.

“That’s a thing?” Potter stared at her.

“Unfortunately.” Fletcher shrugged. “I’ve found myself in _several_ unideal situations.”

Draco had to stop himself from laughing and instead, shoved a mouthful of dry pasta into his mouth to chew through the amusement. Potter looked on the edge of laughter himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he shifted his food around the bowl.

“I see.”

“Why don’t you tell Potter about the great porridge incident with your last boyfriend? That’s a delightful tale,” Draco prodded his work friend from across the table with a wicked grin.

He rightfully deserved the deadly glare Fletcher shot at him. But she groaned, and under Potter’s peaked interest, she recounted the latest incident of many which ultimately led to her last relationship’s destabilisation.

Potter was laughing by the end of the story, clutching his stomach, as Fletcher flushed a dark shade of red, that snaked up her neck to her cheeks. The laughter, Potter’s laughter, was strange to hear – so close to Draco, within the same conversation as him. It was rough and throaty and flowed out of Potter with a natural ease.

Draco smiled along with the story, stomaching his dinner during the distraction.

The air was amicable, much alike a departmental trip to the pub – not that Draco ever attended those events, so it wasn’t a fair comparison – but they cleared away the mess once they’d eaten and settled in their own individual areas with far more contentment then he’d expected. Fletcher and he wrote up their notes in comfortable silence besides one another, leaning across their desks to examine the runic symbols and correctly copy them down. Potter was on the couch, his boots abandoned and his socked feet kicked over the arm, reading through a file at a slow pace. Although, he frequently took breaks to stare blankly into the flame of the nearest lamp.

And the time passed in a strange haze of note taking and reading. Fletcher pulled several books out of her backpack at one point, slapping them down on the desk and beginning to trawl the pages.

Draco gave up at around 11 pm and got ready for bed in the adjoining bathroom where the front seats had been. He slipped into the far bed, reading a few chapters of his novel until Fletcher joined him in the neighbouring bed, still nibbling on some crumbly snack. The lights were dimmed by Potter, but he didn’t move – remaining on the couch, fidgeting, and staring into oblivion.

It was an unsettling idea really – to sleep in the same room as Potter and leave himself vulnerable in such a state – but Draco had long ago given up being afraid of the inevitable. If Potter was to attack him, Draco probably wouldn’t even fight it. He’d lie there and not make a sound.

The war had created fucked up versions of everybody.

Draco tossed and turned until he fell asleep despite the abusive thoughts. Fletcher, too, followed into the pits of sleep. Leaving only Potter.

Potter who remained on the sofa, lost to the world.

}{

When Draco rose the following morning – surprised he was still alive and unhurt – he cast a long look across to Fletcher’s sleeping figure and over to Potter’s bed. It was empty. In fact, it looked like nobody had slept in it at all and Draco didn’t have enough faith in Potter’s skills to believe he perfectly made the bed after a long night of restful sleep.

Draco sat up, propping the pillow behind his back as he rubbed his eyes and blinked into the morning light.

Potter stepped through the back doors, carrying what seemed to be a crate of canned drinks and packaged pancakes. He caught Draco’s eyes as he reached the kitchen and looked away.

“Juniper wasn’t kidding about swearing in her sleep.” Potter said as he packed a few items into the cupboards and began fixing up some sort of breakfast for himself.

Draco shook his head mutely.

“I heard my name!” Fletcher said groggily, sitting up with a severe case of bedhead, and scanned the room slowly. “Morning…”

“I only said you were swearing in your sleep.” Potter explained, turning away to spread syrup across a pile of pancakes. “Quite loud, actually.”

“Let me guess, Draco slept right through it?” Fletcher cast him a dry look. “I knew you’d be a fucking heavy sleeper.”

Draco slipped out of his covers and padded across the room to the bathroom, scooping up a pile of clothes he’d laid out last night. “You should watch your filthy mouth, Miss Fletcher.” He smirked.

She responded with a childish poke of her tongue in his direction and slumped back into her bed. “You’re one to talk, Draco fucking Malfoy.”

Draco shrugged it off with a small smile and disappeared into the bathroom.

As he changed – certainly not into any of that awful denim that Potter was sporting again today – he could hear the faint chatter of Fletcher and Potter in the other room. They must have worked together many times in the past year. The pair seemed to have an easy friendship and he hadn’t heard Fletcher act so casual around anyone besides Draco at work.

But she sounded happy and Draco knew she wasn’t often happy while she worked. He wouldn’t take that away from her, no matter how much Potter agitated his very being.

So, he emerged from the bathroom and waited for them to eat, to change, and get a move on. He slipped a banana and an apple, that Potter had acquired from a questionable source, into his pocket as they left to continue their investigation.

It was a long day.

They meandered back to the original site, checking the path for any evidence they might have missed, and then split up in three directions with the aim of checking out the wider area. They managed to increase their investigative radius by fifty foot each hour. Draco, though not acclimatised to field work, joined Fletcher crawling on their knees to check out any mysterious symbols on trees. The majority seemed to be sleazy muggle graffiti, including several _A &G 4EVA_ inscriptions that Draco had to read. 

Bit by bit they widened their scope with no luck. The group had left almost no trace. There was not a single magical signature that lingered, and their attempted tracking spells couldn’t cling onto the residual for long enough to settle onto a single direction. So, the three of them slumped against a tree stump at midday for a spot of lunch.

Fletcher passed around the sandwiches and chocolate she’d been carrying in her bag, and they munched in silence, staring around at the surrounding forest. They remained there, crouched on the ground for around twenty minutes. Fletcher was muttering some mathematical calculations under her breath, but besides her, the world seemed still. A soft breeze rustled the trees’ branches every once in a while, and birds chirped in the near distance, but it all seemed so far away.

The three of them were in the centre of nature, not another person to be seen, and Draco felt like he could breathe.

That was until Potter clapped his hands together jumped to his feet. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover today. Let’s split up and meet up in three hours?”

Fletcher nodded, but Draco scowled to himself. This would be a much easier technique if they flew…on brooms, in that flying car Weasley had hijacked in second year, even on a stupid hippogriff! But Draco didn’t kick up a fuss under Fletcher’s watchful gaze and stomped off in his designated direction, kicking a few extra tree roots when their inconvenient positioning pissed him off.

And after all the time they spent scouring three miles of forest, they found nothing. _Nothing_.

Draco raised his complaints once they’d found one another at the minibus. The sun was setting once again and it was simple reminder of another day passing and nothing to show for it.

“Surely there are better ways to approach this ridiculous search than this? What’s that muggle phrase…? We’re looking for a needle in a 300 square mile national park.”

“Such as?” Potter challenged monotonously, unlocking the back doors to unveil the interior.

“Flying? We’d cover twenty times as much ground _and_ they wouldn’t see us coming.” Draco scorned, crossing his arms as he leant against the back of the sofa.

“They’d hear us coming,” Potter bit back.

“Bullshit.” Draco retorted.

Fuck professionalism.

“Maybe they followed the stream to their next settlement spot? Early civilisations and hunter-gatherers used to set up their camps along a river so that they had a constant water source.” Fletcher suggested in a faint attempt at mediation. “We should try sticking to that nearby river and see if it leads to them.”

Potter rubbed his face and exhaled. “Ok, fine. We’ll try that tomorrow.”

“Great. I’ll make a start on dinner then?”

“No!” Draco strode across the room and knocked the pan out of Fletcher’s clutches. “I can cook tonight.”

“Arsehole.” Fletcher slapped him on the arm as she left the kitchen with a small skip in her step. Draco watched her plod across the room and throw her body into one of the desk chairs, wrapping her knees up to her chin as she flipped open yet another of her books.

Now, Draco was no mastermind chef, but he managed to whip together a semi-decent French dish from the sparse ingredients Potter had stocked their tiny kitchen with. It was fortunate that Fletcher had set the standards so low last night, for Draco’s dish didn’t look half as appetising as he hoped. But as Potter and Fletcher took slow first bites, he was mildly relieved that neither so much as flinched at the taste.

Potter looked like he had a twig up his arse the entire evening regardless. He occupied the same position as the night prior and stared into the mid-distance, barely blinking behind those ridiculous glasses.

“Are you going to sit there all night, Potter?” Draco asked, admittedly more snarkily than intended, after he hadn’t moved for an hour.

“Maybe I am.” Potter replied quickly. “Is that problem?”

“No, not at all. Fletcher and I will just slave away over here. You continue wasting away all you like.” Draco said, a bite to his words – so much so that Fletcher lifted her head from the desk and shot a warning look at him.

Potter glared over his shoulder.

“I’m only saying… I’d wager that Saviour title gives you certain privileges, slacking on the job for instance. Kingsley loves to use you as his little useless, shining poster boy.”

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.” Potter almost rose from his seat, _almost_. He nearly looked alive, rather than looking like an exhausted 23-year-old with nothing better to do on the weekend than stalk a creepy cult through the forest.

Let it be forgotten that some sections of that statement also applied to Draco.

“Has our nation’s golden boy got an anger issue? I guess you didn’t get your temper from the Dark Lord after all.”

Potter was on his feet, his wand pointed at Draco. There was a fire burning in his eyes. “Give me one good reason why you deserve the redemption I gave you?”

The silence hung between them for a moment too long. Potter’s dangerous gaze didn’t faze Draco in the slightest as he contemplated the wisest response.

“I make a pretty excellent bœuf bourguignon?” Draco responded, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Fletcher released a pent-up exhale from beside him, sensing the tension dissipating out of the room in a swift gush. Potter dropped his wand and turned away; Draco chose to believe he was hiding a stupid grin. When he returned, he only cast a worn-out look at Draco and slumped back onto the sofa.

“Do me a favour, Malfoy.”

“Do I get anything in return?” Draco pushed.

“Just give me another hour of peace. All right?” Potter’s voice was faint, weary and got lost on its way to Draco.

Something about his tone shut Draco up and the clever retort on his lips died.

That was the last he heard from Potter that night.

}{

It was strange how easily an unusual experience can morph into a state of normality.

So, as the light was fed through the dimmed minibus windows the next morning, Draco stirred, thankful for the calm awakening. He rolled onto his side, gradually noting where he was, who he was with, and it all felt simply uninteresting.

Fletcher had risen before him, evidenced by the gentle clicking of a spoon against china as she stirred her morning tea. There were low voices too, the other being as almost as familiar as Fletcher’s rough voice.

Patting his hair as he sat up, Draco blinked across the room. His eyes adjusted slowly to the sunlight, drifting in and out of focus, and fell upon Potter.

The victim of his natural gaze was leant against the kitchen counter, his own china cup clutched between two palms, lips pouted as he cooled the contents with gentle breaths. He looked tired, sleepless even.

“Morning, arsehole.” Fletcher said suddenly and Potter met his eyes.

Draco tugged them violently away and nodded in Fletcher’s vague direction. “ _Juniper_.”

“Oh Lord, don’t use my first name,” She narrowed her eyes momentarily to ensure Draco captured her aggression.

“Do you not like your name?” Potter asked, his stance shifting into a something subtly more nervous.

Fletcher paused and looked back at him with a charming smile on her face. “Don’t worry, Harry, _you_ can use my name. I just don’t like the way Draco’s dirty mouth says it.”

Potter took an awkward sip of his tea and looked anywhere but his two colleagues. “I see.”

“Why does Potter get first name privileges?”

“Draco, love, you don’t call anybody by their first name.” Fletcher swiped back. “Your poor friends aren’t even offered that rare gift. Is now really the appropriate time to discuss your appalling attachment issues?”

Draco would argue back, he really would, but it would get nasty and Potter was right there, staring at him in a different light. He suddenly wanted to slap the words back into Fletcher’s mouth; it was her fault Potter was looking at Draco like he _pitied_ him.

So, instead, he muttered a half-hearted “Fuck off, Fletcher,” and watched the wicked grin that grew upon her lips, tying her cheeks together.

He discretely stuck up his middle finger at her smug face as he slipped out of bed. Her grin only widened. 

A cup of tea and an apple later, they were back to venturing through the forest. Fletcher’s theory hadn’t held true yet, but they followed the narrow river that weaved through the land regardless.

Potter strode at the other side, peering through the woods, while Draco and Fletcher walked together, elbowing each other into passing bushes each time the opportunity arose.

Shockingly, there was nothing for two miles and Draco’s heart sunk, realising perhaps they should have headed upstream instead. There was no point turning back now.

An entire weekend wasted.

A nearby rustle snagged his attention. Draco paused, looking west as the other two continued onward. He frowned, categorising it as wildlife, and turned to catch up.

Then, there was a distant patter of voices and Draco felt a light wave of magic wash down his skin. He froze once again, tilting his head towards the thick forest to his side, and stared in the direction of the magic. Almost automatically, his legs rallied his body forward. It was instinctual, and the magic felt familiar, though unsettling.

He pushed through the wild undergrowth and stopped a hundred yards in. Voices drifted over, woven with casual incantations, nothing more than simple spells.

Draco edged closer, ducking as his gaze found a group of wizards and witches wrapped around a dwindling fire. Their ages varied hugely. Several teenagers were chasing one another around the camp, childlike grins on their dopey faces, passing a couple of wizards of a more senior age. The latter were perched on a log by the flames, heads together, gesturing animatedly.

Perhaps twenty members, Draco counted as he crouched behind a large boulder, and they were all dressed in robes barely thick enough to stay naturally warm. A few that had strayed from the centre had long muggle coats dangling off their shoulder. The wards shimmered in the air a few feet from his position; they would be enough to subtly deter muggles from the area, but any half-competent wizard would be capable of detecting the diversion effect.

The magic was peculiar. It tugged on Draco’s nerves and twisted them inside out until he had to shake it away.

A twig snapped behind him and he startled as Potter threw himself bedside Draco, peering around the other side of the boulder.

“Reckon that’s them?”

“Judging by their hygiene states, they’ve been living here for several months, I’d say. So, it’s possible.” Draco answered lowly. “I assume muggles don’t usually trample around the woods in thin clothes muttering under their breath?”

“Wizards don’t either.” Potter said, his shoulder pressed to Draco’s.

“Indeed.” Draco adjusted his crouched position slightly so he could stare better around the boulder and yanked his wand out from where it was lodged between their bodies. “I’ll see if I can match their magical signature to the remains that we found a few miles away.”

Potter said nothing as Draco set to work, racking his brain for a number of spells that might make the link if he could manipulate them enough to give him the parameters he wanted. He whispered them, following through with minute movements of his wand.

But the magic they’d picked up at the crime scene had been far too old, it had woven with the natural magic of the forest and become indistinct. Draco couldn’t line it up enough with the wisps of magic that drifted their way – it was strong but not dark, and there was something underlining its strength but Draco couldn’t quite place it.

“They’re not… I can’t be sure.” Draco said after some time, once he’d exhausted every kind of magic he could manage.

“There’s nothing definite we can tie to them?” Potter asked, patience grazing his light tone.

“No, nothing that will hold up in a trial.” He glanced back at the group. They looked harmless enough, many of the members were too young to know any complex magic, and they probably couldn’t fight off an Auror and two relatively experienced wizards. “Why don’t we take them in for questioning?”

Potter stared at him like Draco’s remaining intelligence had slipped out of his ear overnight. “And if they see us as a threat and attack?”

“We take them in by force.”

“You two do not have licenses for combat action! And I am not facing off twenty-odd wizards of unknown magical ability by myself.” Potter hissed, his face turning a startling shade of pink. “It’s not worth the risk.”

“But—”

“No. We’ll retreat and watch what they do.” Potter instructed firmly and Draco was reminded of the infuriating fact that he was in charge. “Now, come on, let’s find Juniper before she wanders into their warding.”

So, they ran back to Fletcher in the shadows of the forest and set up an observation operation, which fundamentally involved loitering from a distance. The three of them watched and made notes and grimaced as the group ripped a half-dead hare to edible shreds. Fletcher passed out a few chocolate bars, the same Dairy Milk that Draco was getting accustomed with, and they seemed to appear in handfuls from her jacket.

In the daylight, the potential cult got up to nothing of interest. Their activities mainly seemed to consist of playing with child-level hexes and tossing them at nearby trees in some bizarre competition that involved juggling a set of pinecones. Besides that, they gathered firewood and lay around in tattered sheets, making enough conversation to keep the camp awake.

The hours ticked by and Potter grew restless. He was acting like an agitated fool, as though he had to be moving at all times. Draco held his tongue for the sake of the case, although he noticed Fletcher was eyeing the fidgeting too.

By the time that the sun hung low in the sky, the three of them agreed to give up for the day. It was growing dark and with limited visibility, Potter explained, they were open to attack. It was too risky. Potter said that a lot – always going on about risk, as though he didn’t spend an entire war making stupidly risky decisions that relied entirely on luck being on his side. It had been, of course. Because he was Harry fucking Potter, the boy extraordinaire.

They trudged back to the roadside, managing to locate the minibus after wandering down the road for half a mile. Fletcher and Potter chatted lightly about their other work cases as they walked, but Draco dragged behind, kicking at the gravel below his feet.

“We’d better head back to London – Kingsley is expecting a briefing at 9am.” Potter said, as they reached the minibus, and yanked the back doors open. He pulled out a plastic water bottle and held it out. “Here, I arranged a portkey. It leaves in ten minutes and drops you behind the Costa Coffee down the road from the Ministry.”

Draco took it immediately, curling his fingers around crackling material. “Thanks.”

But Fletcher shook her head. “Are you driving back, Harry? I’ll join you.”

Potter nodded and smiled for a split second.

And then, they were leaving.

Draco stood on the roadside, clutching his bag in one hand and the portkey in the other. He watched as Potter sloppily pulled out into the road, lugging the big car out of the big dip he’d parked in. Dust was sprayed up at Draco as they left, the mechanical contraption was all he could see of his co-workers as they grew into a tiny dot in the distance.

The portkey jerked at his core as it threw him across the country moments later. He landed in a grubby alleyway behind the Costa coffee shop like Potter had promised.

Draco brushed off the dirt pressed into the fabric of his clothes, lifted his chin high and returned to his life for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, 
> 
> I'm hoping that the next chapter will be up by the end of this week! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. 
> 
> Niemi


	3. David and Ares

Monday morning was as bland as the coffee Draco bought from the new roadside vendor. He made his way to the office, taking risky sips of his coffee as the lift lurched and jolted, passing a few vague acquaintances in the corridors and nodding politely.

The atmosphere was stilted as he entered, although there seemed to be no correlation or causation. The beginning of the week was always rough. Fletcher offered a tired smile as she slumped behind her desk and began flipping through her files. Worker after worker piled in, the last stumbling through the door twenty minutes late with a small coffee stain on their sleeve.

Potter appeared another ten minutes later, evidently having attending that briefing with Kingsley. Dark rings hung below his eyes as he hesitated in the doorway, clearly taking the time to fix a bright smile to his lips, before he stepped through, rowdily greeting some of his closer co-workers.

Draco watched as the smile faded once Potter settled behind his faraway desk. Through the amicable chatter of the office, his eyes flickered up to meet Draco’s. They moved away.

It was an ordinary week. The Tuesday Blues hit the office hard, but the intern brought a cake to lift the mood. Draco didn’t steal a slice until everybody else had left for the day. Perhaps the cleaning lady had caught him with an inelegant mouthful of the crumbly cake in the moments after, but it was surprisingly good and he didn’t care.

Fletcher tugged him to Case 341’s specially allocated room a couple of times a day to discuss another theory of hers. She had a hundred and one suspicions about the group’s activities and their grand plan. Draco shot down approximately 60% of them. Meanwhile, Potter occasionally appeared to offer a comment or two. Sometimes he was already in the room, curled up behind his desk, reading the same case file over and over again. In those instances, he didn’t seem to hear Fletcher or Draco; they might as well not be there. Potter’s mind seemed to be elsewhere anyway.

Not that Draco cared.

Draco had enough to care about. He visited his mother in the evenings, resisting the temptation to wrap her frail body in his arms and never let go. Pansy met him for lunch on Wednesday, flashing a shiny engagement ring that had been slipped onto her finger on Sunday by the most successful bachelor in her own miniature dating show.

“Congratulations, Parkinson.” Draco smiled, taking her hand to closely examine the ring. It certainly looked like 24 carat. “Who’s the lucky wizard?

“Don’t laugh!” Pansy warned with a wince. “Ernest Macmillan…”

Draco choked on his drink.

“He’s a pureblood! And really rather great! Even my father approves...” She blushed and the pink in her cheeks stuck. “I like him, Draco.”

Through his laughter, that notably lasted throughout the entire lunch, Draco could see genuine happiness in Pansy’s eyes. He was relieved.

His only other social commitment consisted of Greg fire-calling him on Thursday evening while Draco leant against the mantle, listening and smiling at the correct prompts.

So, Draco cared about enough people really. He didn’t need to wade in Potter’s problems for a feeling of self-assurance, fixing them wouldn’t elevate his low level of self-worth anyway. The public would make sure of that.

When he turned up to the case 341 office on Thursday morning, there was an empty jam jar and a note. Draco frowned and picked up the latter. It read a simple,

_Coming?_

in a rough scrawl that certainly didn’t belong to Fletcher. But he turned it over and found her elegant cursive,

_The portkey leaves at 11:30am. Don’t let us down, loser._

_P.S. Bring an overnight bag._

Draco almost smiled.

He dismissed the fact they were leaving a day early, that he’d miss another two days of work. This _was_ work after all, except he was offered the opportunity to escape the too small departmental office and move. Besides, if Potter and Fletcher had already left, they had the Shacklebolt stamp of approval. Who was Draco to deny such a blessing?

Several hours later, the portkey spun him to the rear of a pub. He could hear jolly singing inside, likely from drunken workers who had bunked off a full day of work. The smell of pastries drifted his way as he walked around to the front of the pub and looked up at the creaky sign.

Draco hardly had the time to contemplate what a strange name _The Ham and Cheese_ was when tires screeched to a stop behind him and he pivoted to see Fletcher’s wild hair caught in the wind as she leaned out the minibus window.

“You came!” She shouted across the small car park.

Draco strode over, pulling the passenger door open and clambering inside. “Under the implied promise of an overtime bonus, of course I did.”

“I promised no such thing,” Potter said over his shoulder. His eyes looked sunken from the drive, but a smile toyed at the corners of his lips. “Seatbelt on.”

Grudgingly obedient, Draco yanked the belt across his body and crossed his arms.

“Good boy,” Fletcher commented slyly.

Draco cast a quick stinging hex to her exposed calf, all he could reach at this angle, and took satisfaction in the muffled scream she released. He’d been waiting the entire week for the opportunity.

}{

They parked up a further ten miles down the road and Fletcher set up the concealment charms and warding as Potter stretched the interior of the van.

Draco, meanwhile, stared into the forest, roughly in the direction of the group.

His gut instinct was telling him they were wasting their time. Aside from an extremely strange incident with the seven-fingered convict, the group hadn’t appeared to cause any more trouble. They had an understandable diet of birds and small mammals, and had made the questionable decision to renounce from society. Besides those two general brackets of concern, Draco felt it was a little extreme to label them a cult.

Something niggled at him though. It was like an itch tucked behind his ribs that he couldn’t scratch.

He couldn’t quite shake it.

Potter beckoned them into the minibus once the job was done and Draco left his bag on the same bed as last week before gathering by the desks. Potter was in his chair.

“Right then. The plan is to observe them for a couple of days and set up a few surveillance and tracking spells. That way, we can continue to monitor them from the office.” Potter said, tipping his head towards Fletcher. “Juniper has been researching the most efficient spells for this number of wizards.”

She indicated to a listing of incantations on a nearby piece of parchment.

“Malfoy, add any of your own suggestions to the list.” Potter continued. “We’ll locate them this afternoon.”

By the time they made it back to the group’s campsite, it was abandoned. Besides, a few dead carcasses were scattered around the fire, skinned to the bone, of course. Fletcher had to look away. The same runes were carved into three points around the campsite border, the same pattern. Draco noted them down.

Fortunately, the faint magical imprint that the group had left made tracking them down far easier than the prior week. Draco was able to detect a trail that followed the stream’s jagged route, upon the manipulation of a simple level three tracking spell, and they set off, tracing the river’s outline with their boots.

Fletcher spotted the group another three miles downstream and silently pointed through the trees. The three of them carefully treaded around the camp’s perimeter, in sought of the best surveillance point, and settled in a slightly heighted area that still had direct oversight to the group.

“They walked.” Potter remarked when they’d gotten comfortable and Fletcher was handing around the first round of chocolate snacks.

“Huh?” She frowned.

“They must have walked. Otherwise, why would they travel three miles in an entire week?” He elaborated, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows.

Draco considered it, turning back to the campsite. “They don’t have any other mode of transport.” He realised, “Although, all of them look to be of age, why wouldn’t they apparate? Why this forest?”

“Exactly,” Potter followed Draco’s gaze. “Why are they travelling at all?”

“Maybe they suspect the Ministry is following them. The muggle police dropped the case weeks ago, but it was enough to grab our attention,” Fletcher suggested.

“So, they’re smart or they have ulterior motives.” Potter sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on top. “When will we start getting answers?”

Fletcher shared an unimpressed look with Draco, one that had brimming on the surface. Neither of them ever had much opportunity to swipe at Potter’s ego in the office, given he was almost always surrounded by a wall of adoring fans (known as passive-aggressive colleagues to them). Perhaps Fletcher wouldn’t dare, not to his face, but Draco had years of high-school bullying under his belt and nothing left to lose.

“What’s wrong, Potter? Are you only talented at combat? Do you miss trading curses with the scum of the earth?” Draco sniped, rolling his eyes. “Our precious saviour is overrated, dearest Fletcher.”

Potter glanced up at him, not moving his head, and big emerald eyes stared at Draco before they pulled away and fell upon the camp. He didn’t respond. He didn’t say another word for half an hour, gaze ghosting across the area ahead of them.

In the silence, Draco and Fletcher wrote up their conversation – the relevant segments, at least –for the case file, knocking heads together as they mind-mapped possible conclusions from their disconnected notes. Fletcher took to doodling small creatures along the edge of the parchment. It began with the outline of a niffler, followed by Luna’s interpretation of a nargle and a lanky sasquatch. It was entertaining enough, to switch between her sketches and the dull camp before them.

There wasn’t much to observe. The younger half of the group was playing a long-winded game of hide and seek, tucking their narrow bodies behind tree trunks and thick bushes, with delirious happiness. Something about the situation nagged on Draco. He had no right to judge how teenagers and twenty-somethings ought to act, and yet, there was an obvious conclusion his mind couldn’t quite drag into the light.

The elders of the camp were spread around the area, lying on the ground with their eyes to the sky. Life looked uninteresting from Draco’s perspective, but there were smiles on their lips and a dazzled look in their eyes. Joy was an integral part of daily life to these people, it seemed - nothing malicious or cruel.

Fletcher cast warming charms when the late spring air tossed a bitterly cold wind in their direction. They’d been lucky so far, well-endowed with enough sun to keep them comfortable. The heavy flock of dark clouds being blown east suggested that wouldn’t last any longer.

“We should head back before sunset,” Potter spoke for the first time in hours as the sun ducked behind the cloud coverage. His gaze swung slowly from Fletcher to Draco to garner their reactions. “Have you managed to apply the surveillance spell for tonight, Juniper?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher shivered a fraction, tugging her jacket tighter.

Draco topped up the warming charm as they watched and waited for the day to close. The group roasted a hare across the fire as the sunlight dwindled, ripping into it with their fingers once it was cooked. They paid no attention to three shadows slipping past, out of sight and earshot.

There wasn’t much chance to protest once they reached the riverbank, Potter grabbed their forearms and side-apparated them back to the minibus.

Draco pulled his arm away from the scorching touch of Potter once they landed at the rear of the van, immediately pulling the back doors open and climbing inside. It wrapped his cold body in a bubble of solid warmth, as though he was bundled up in a blanket by a roaring fire, and Draco exhaled.

He set to work on their dinner, using whatever he could find in the bare cupboards, and ignored Fletcher’s attempts at conversation. She stood at his shoulder regardless, watching him slice and stir and peel. The food was served forty-five minutes later, once they’d set the table and settled down.

Routine was a simple thing after two nights. Draco and Fletcher wrote, Potter read his file. There was a natural division through the room; the gradual redeemers and the national treasure. No matter how many reforms the Ministry made, it would always exist.

The moon was nestled among the peaks of the trees when Draco climbed into bed. The lights went out and Fletcher was muttering in her sleep, and Draco tossed and turned. He slipped to the edge of consciousness and back again, sleep never entirely within reach even as the moon rose to its full height in the sky.

So, he twisted, and he laid still. He waited for a rest that didn’t want to come.

An hour after midnight, Draco kicked away the covers and lingered on the edge of his bed. The room hung in a calm quiet; Fletcher’s voice had settled to gentle murmurs and Potter wasn’t there. Draco’s heart raced for the shortest of moments and letting his sleepy mind guide the way, he slipped his boots on and headed for the door.

It released a whining creak as he pushed it open and found Potter sat on the grass verge, his hair twisted in a crown of moonlight. The man didn’t react to the door opening, nor the sound of Draco slowly lowering himself onto the edge of the minibus.

“Do you sleep, Potter?” Draco drawled, relishing in the way Potter’s head whipped around at the unexpected sound.

“I sleep.” Potter answered sharply.

“The dark circles and the late-night stargazing would suggest otherwise.” Draco continued and even in his tired state, a sneer came to settle on his expression. “Forgive me for asking an obvious question.”

Potter sighed and fully turned so that he faced Draco, his knees tucked beneath his chin and his eyes bright despite the darkness. Forever bright. He took a moment to think and nothing filled the space between them. Draco looked into those eyes and didn’t think twice before imitating Potter’s position.

He was washed over by a sense of vulnerability, curled up opposite the Chosen One, who was just a man. Really, Draco had always known Potter was only a boy and then, only a man, but… but they’d never been caught in such a strange scenario.

Draco tore his gaze away. “Don’t look at me like you’re so much better than—”

“Do you like your job, Malfoy?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his defences rising steeply to their maximum height. “What are you implying, Potter? Are you trying to suggest I’m not good enough to—?"

“I’m asking exactly the question I asked.” Potter repeated wearily, his neutral expression unchanged. “Do you like your job? Genuinely.”

It took a long moment for Draco to catch up and then he had to pause, contemplate honesty, and say, “Well, I don’t like my colleagues or the institution, but yes, I suppose. It pays the bills.”

Potter didn’t pay notice to the indirect insult, but there was no doubt he already knew about Draco’s dislike of him and his office fanbase. He nodded lightly.

“That’s good. It feels like everybody in the damn office is thrilled to be there so—” Draco stopped himself from correcting that statement to _Everybody in the fucking office is thrilled to work with Harry stupid Potter_ , and blinked. “—nice that there’s one person who’s only mildly happy to work there.”

A strange sensation flooded Draco’s chest as he understood Potter’s words as a simple confession. He was being honest to Draco of all people.

“I lied.” Draco said and wanted to clamp a hand over his mouth a second later. Potter slightly lifted his eyebrows. “I…I don’t like my job. The Ministry is still fucked up and everybody is ignoring that. The work can be interesting…but if I could get a job anywhere else, I wouldn’t hesitate to quit.”

The moonlight played a trick on Draco’s vision, faking a small lift of Potter’s lips.

“Even if you couldn’t take Juniper with you?”

Draco laughed drily, only the once. “Especially if I couldn’t take Fletcher. She is a pain in my pompous arse for forty hours a week.”

Unexpectedly, Potter chuckled under his breath and looked towards the minibus, as though to search for a familiar mane of hair. Fletcher didn’t emerge with a crazy grin, but Draco almost expected her to. He wouldn’t mind her arms wrapping around him, despite any protests he might feign, and Fletcher squeezing him tight, exactly how he hugged his mother. Was that a sign of love?

“I reckon you could get a job somewhere else. The country isn’t as bad as it was five years ago and there is still a labour shortage.” Potter said.

“The country thinks _I’m_ as bad as I was five years ago…” Draco stopped, eyes wide, and wanted to cram the words back into his mouth. He’d said them too openly. Draco didn’t talk to people like that, he couldn’t. “That’s not—I—Regardless, nobody in their right mind would hire me.”

Potter looked at him, his head tilting a fraction to the side. “I dunno, maybe not. Would it hurt to try?”

“Are you my fucking careers advisor, Potter? I can take care of myself.”

Through a hazy gaze, Potter drew away and shrugged.

So, that was that. Whatever casual conversation they’d been having – their _first_ casual conversation since they first met – well, it ended. Draco rose back onto his feet and turned to go back to bed. Something prompted him to linger. He looked at the man tucked in the grass.

“Will you sleep, Potter?”

Potter nodded but turned back to the forest. And it wasn’t Draco’s business, it wasn’t in Draco’s capacity to care, so he left.

Sleep came a little quicker, once his toes had warmed and the night’s events stopped rolling through Draco’s mind on a loop. It stuttered on Potter’s laugh each time, the reel getting lodged. Somewhere through the fifth loop, Draco drifted away.

When he woke, Potter was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, looking tired, but his bed sheets were rumpled. Draco smiled.

}{

If there was a single thing that caught Draco’s eye when he looked at the Dartmoor Cult, as Fletcher had officially started calling them for case consistency purposes, it was the behaviour. Many of the individuals acted like children.

They stared up at the two apparent leaders for instruction, often cross-legged on the floor with fidgeting fingers. They threw tantrums and stomped their boots on the ground or wailed until they received the inevitable life lesson that they’d only be ignored.

From the magical signatures they could detect, Draco and Fletcher had managed to pin down each individual’s age to a small range. Besides a couple of nineteen-year olds, the rest were easily in their twenties, thirties, and forties. Yet, when the sun dropped low enough for the routine afternoon nap, the younger (at heart) individuals crawled towards their senior counterparts so they could be wrapped within their arms and held for the duration. There was a form of dependence that Draco couldn’t ignore.

No matter how long he observed their behaviour and no matter how many pieces of parchment he filled with notes and remarks, he couldn’t understand.

Perhaps, their minds were under-developed. There was always the possibility they’d been raised in the wild, or perhaps they had learning difficulties. But why had they gathered together? The elder members - which Draco now classified as those with seemingly matured minds – showed signs of having lived in the urban world. When he raised his points to Potter and Fletcher, they only came up with the same possible conclusions.

Fletcher offered to buy him dinner if Draco closed the case in six weeks. She said this through a mouthful of chocolate and washed it down with swig of the tea she’d brought, so Draco was a little sceptical of her genuineness. 

Potter’s eyes flicked between them as Fletcher subsequently suggested a light-hearted bet instead. Draco would get his precious fancy dinner and Fletcher would be given a single secret if he failed in his task – in his _job_.

“That doesn’t sound fair.” Potter remarked, “A secret is worth far less than a dinner.”

“No, no. You don’t see, naïve child.” Fletcher soothed him patronisingly and patted him on the shoulder. “Draco has never told me a secret. I’ve known him 15 months, I’ve endured his lame jokes for _over a year_ , and he refuses to divulge even the tiniest of secrets.”

“You’ve never told me a secret either!” Draco blurted, a little childishly, a little pink in the cheeks.

Fletcher caught his eyes and smirked. “You’ve never asked, sweetheart.”

Draco glared at her.

“You two have a strange friendship…” Potter said, swinging his attention back to the camp. He didn’t look back when Fletcher and Draco began swatting one another, all in jest of course – aside from the one slap that would most certainly bruise on Draco’s arm.

He tried to retaliate with little success; Fletcher was a master at non-verbal protego spells. When it was bordering on uncivilised, if they hadn’t long passed that line, Draco spotted something.

“Ouch! Draco!”

“Hush.” Draco stared down into the camp. “Are they… Fletcher! They’re carving runes into a tree.”

The three of them rolled onto their knees to peer down at the camp. Two of the elder members were huddled around a tree on the far perimeter, wands in their hands as they traced symbols in the air. If Draco squinted hard enough, he could almost see the blurry outline of the runes in the bark.

“It can’t be warding. They’ve been at this campsite for several days, why would they create additional protection?” Potter asked neither of them in particular.

“Have they carved the symbols anywhere else?”

“Not that I can see,” Fletcher frowned, tipping to her furthest reach. “Do you reckon it’ll be a triangle-shaped area again?”

Draco tried to concentrate on rifling through his mind, stretching for the mental case file that floated out of his grasp. Something was happening, surely. A niggling feeling in his chest told him that much.

They watched as the two people did indeed carve into the bark of another two trees, after standing around for a while and completing measurement spells to ensure they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. The moment they finished the final rune on the third tree, the atmosphere changed.

The magical aura shifted into unfamiliarity.

“What was that?” Potter must have sensed it too, his fingers moved to his wand. “Malfoy, Juniper?”

“I… don’t know,” Draco was the first to admit it. “But it felt old, that wasn’t magic from the modern world.”

Fletcher was frozen, her shoulder hunched as she fought a shiver. “I haven’t felt magic like that since the–since the…”

“The war.” Potter’s expression toughened.

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say much for the rest of the afternoon as Fletcher flicked through her books and made half-hearted notes. Draco tried to help, but his hands shook each time he tried to write a sentence. It was as though he’d lost the skill; Draco had been capable of writing in his swoopy cursive since the age of six, he couldn’t simply _lose_ that ability.

When they slumped back to the minibus at sunset, the silence was soaked in exhaustion. Draco was overwhelmed with the urge to apparate back home and crawl into his mother’s bed. He hadn’t seen her in two days, it felt far too long.

Fletcher herself clambered into bed and cocooned her body within the duvet, only a nose left in the open for oxygen. Draco made dinner against his body’s pleas. It took tremendous strength to lift a single arm and stirred the pot intermittently, but he managed it.

Potter appeared at the counter halfway through. “Want any help?”

“This is a surprise. Saint Potter offering his unskilled help...” Draco responded, yet there was no bite in his tired tone. He exhaled heavily and gestured to the small dining area, “You can set the table.”

“Fine.”

Draco noticed out the corner of his eye that even Potter was coercing his body to compliance through its exhaustion; his feet dragged slightly against the floor, his hands dangled heavily against his thighs. Something in those runes had caused this. Perhaps it had simply been the strength of the spell. Some ancient magic relied on draining the magic energy of all living beings within the perimeter, but Draco had only seen it mentioned on a handful of counts, it certainly hadn’t been a large enough area of magic for any further research. Most spells he’d seen referenced relied upon a natural magic of the land; they leeched their fuel from the very soil.

Fletcher rolled out of bed upon the serving of dinner and sat at the table, staring blankly at the tablecloth with an uncharacteristic melancholy radiating through her spirit. Draco could sense too, how Potter’s and Fletcher’s magical energy had shrunk noticeably. If it was the sort of spell he hoped, then they’d all be back to full strength by the morning.

He wrote up the notes Fletcher had long abandoned today, deciding tonight was not the appropriate time to share his working theory, and then the lights were out by 9 pm, following a silent agreement and a flick of Potter’s wand.

Draco slept for a couple of quick hours, his body melting into the mattress. It was dreamless, meaningless; it allowed plenty of time for body restoration, but Draco still awoke. As seemed to be the trend, Potter wasn’t there when he did.

The van creaked, wind whipping by the windows, as Draco padded across the room. It somehow didn’t take much thought to open the door and peer outside.

“Potter?”

There was no answer and no Potter. Draco slipped his shoes on, clutched his wand and paced around the van’s exterior to check for the man. No sign. Draco frowned.

Where would the fool have gone? To watch the camp, perhaps. What a dangerous idiot he would be, to go alone and swamped in darkness.

Draco slumped onto the edge of the minibus, teetering between the inside and out. His brow was furrowed as he weighed the likely options. Knowing Potter’s saviour complex wasn’t something that could possibly have been resolved in a short five years, it was a highly likely option that he was planning something stupid. It was more likely that Potter was already knee-deep in his self-inflicted trouble.

The familiar crack of apparition snapped Draco back to attention. He stared out into the night and the forest, but there wasn’t a soul. He raised his wand warily.

Then, Potter unveiled himself, his ridiculous invisibility cloak falling to the floor. Draco rolled his eyes, because Potter was juggling four shopping bags and a further crate of some sort of orange juice in his arms.

“Malfoy.”

“You went _shopping_ at this hour?” Draco pushed off the door and strode the extra few feet to the periphery of their warding.

“The shops were open,” Potter shrugged under all that weight.

Draco levitated the crate out of his arms and sent it inside, grabbing two of the packed bags himself. Potter didn’t resist, the slump of his shoulders easing a fraction and his face looking less deathly pale. No wonder, the bags were crammed with groceries, brands and logos that Draco didn’t recognise aside from the few that Fletcher brought in for her weekday lunches.

He climbed back into the minibus, carrying the bags over to the kitchen. A flick of his wand lit a couple of lamps, enough to illuminate the kitchen, and another tugged the limited number of cupboards open.

It was simple enough to organise. Draco began levitating the food into their newly allotted space, three items at a time, and Potter appeared a few moments later. He dove into each of his bags and physically placed them inside the cupboards, leaving a large bag of chocolate on the counter for Fletcher’s sake.

“Are we expected to pay you back for your troubles?” Draco asked quietly, a snarky tone underlining his words.

Potter waved a long strip of paper. “Expenses are covered by the department, remember?”

The last of the groceries were slotted into place and the cupboards closed softly, leaving Potter and Draco stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, with nothing left to move.

“We should stay past sunset tomorrow to observe. Fletcher says the surveillance spells would flag any dark magic but maybe the group is discussing something or…” Potter yawned uncontrollably, his face scrunching up as he brought a hand to cover it. “—er, plotting…”

Draco felt a yawn grow within himself and fought every instinct in order to keep it concealed. It won.

“Go to bed.” Potter said, “We’ll be spending the morning reading every damn book in Juniper’s bag.”

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Draco asked for some unknown reason.

There was something about Potter’s sleep schedule that bothered him. To be fair, if their accompanying Auror was severely sleep-deprived, they did face a much higher likelihood of being violently murdered. Draco was only bothered about the brutal torture that might precede their unfortunate deaths.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Hey, Potter – don’t ignore—"

“Goodnight.” Potter said firmly and walked away to the couch.

Draco rolled his eyes and stood in the kitchen for a minute, lightly kicking the cupboard, to show he wasn’t going to follow any ridiculous orders from Potter. But he inevitably padded over to his bed and climbed back into the warmth.

One of the beds hadn’t been slept in when he woke.

}{

True to his word, Potter dedicated the entire waking morning to research. They perched around the two desks, having transfigured the sofa into an additional chair, and pored over the texts Fletcher had brought. She seemed to have borrowed half of the Ministry’s archive. The texts ranged from case files on previous dark groups (Malfoy claimed the Death Eater file) to the largest encyclopaedia of ancient runes to a selection of muggle books on the psychology of criminals.

The latter was remarkably fascinating. Draco might divulge into a few more in the same field of research once his free time was no longer clogged up by Potter’s and Fletcher’s work escapades.

However, there was only so many words one could read. After a couple of hours, Draco could feel his brain substance melting and dripping gradually out of his ear. His eyes weren’t much better either, he had to rub them repeatedly to regain focus.

None of the texts seemed to provide anything relevant to the case. The group was still an unknown. Its actions were harmless, besides the one accused crime, and half of its members didn’t seem developed enough to hatch an evil plan. Although, the anonymous tips the Ministry had received suggested otherwise.

So, with nothing useful left to read, Fletcher set to work perfecting the application of the tracking spell to a map. She had applied it the day before and despite the challenges of consistently tracking this number of people under a single spell, nothing had collapsed yet.

“Good work, Juniper,” Potter said once it was fully functional, stealing a moment to peer over her shoulder.

Fletcher took that moment to smirk, tipping her head in Draco’s direction. He narrowed his eyes, not grasping her implication, but raised an eyebrow challengingly anyway.

“Thanks, Harry _._ ”

Draco couldn’t catch on but maintained her stare regardless, up to the point where Fletcher had to rip her gaze away to answer one of Potter’s many technical questions. The two of them seemed to be bonding over that stupid map, discussing the specifications of the spell – all as though the Ministry didn’t confiscate fifty-odd magical maps, every year, that were up to no good. Surely this wasn’t the first map of the kind Potter had seen.

It was once Potter disappeared to the toilet that Fletcher laid her snare.

“I heard you two last night.”

Draco glanced up from his book and shrugged, “Is that so? I didn’t hear a pause in your endless muttering.”

“You were worried about him, about Harry.” She smiled mischievously, ignoring his words, leaning forward on her elbows. “Weren’t you?”

“Don’t be a fool, Fletcher. We were talking about work.” Draco answered, flipping the page. “Need I remind you that this is a _work_ trip? You were rather adamant that was made clear last week.”

Fletcher was relentless, nudging him eagerly. She had a grand conspiracy concocting inside her overactive imagination. Those were excellent for solving cases, but Draco had heard her track record for fucking up her personal life with false deductions. He would prefer not to be on the receiving end. Those situations often became… messy.

“Before that! And afterwards, as a matter of fact.” She pushed, eyes shining. “You care about Harry. Don’t try to deny it!”

“Why would I care about that useless halfwit? He probably can’t even distinguish a standard Chardonnay from a Sauvignon Blanc.” Draco rolled his eyes, although the thought snagged on his mind. It propelled him forward. “I’d bet a few thousand gallons that Potter’s a _beer drinker_. Heavens above, can you imagine?”

“Draco, I’m a beer drinker.”

“My point stands.” The left tip of Draco’s lips wavered, almost tipping into a smirk. “My father would be appalled at the company I keep.”

“It’s a shame he’s no longer around to keep your prospective husbands at bay then. Isn’t it?” Fletcher swiped back, not bothering to hide the glee she garnered from a swift back and forth.

“Potter is not a prospective husband. I’d rather marry a swine – and invite the wretched Prophet! – than spend the rest of my sinful days looking at Potter’s stupid face.”

She grinned. “That’s Draco-speak for _I want Potter to fuck me into the next life,_ isn’t it? You never know what might happen! You’re not awful-looking either, my love.”

“Fletcher—”

“You’re really fucking smitten, aren’t you? Oh Merlin—” She jumped excitedly in her seat. “Please tell me that’s why you tormented Harry for so many years? Because you _cared_!”

Draco found green eyes. They stared back at him. 

“ _For Salazar’s left earlobe—!_ ” He hissed under his breath, before snapping, “Shut the fuck up, Fletcher. Put your childish delusions to bed and focus on your job.”

The glare he shot at her was enough to finally lock those lips together.

Swallowing heavily, Fletcher looked over her shoulder and saw Potter, his tired eyes blinking at them. An apology was on the tip of her tongue, then Potter moved, lowering himself back behind the desk, and began reading once again.

Granted, Draco was an idiot for the many, many mistakes he’d made in the past, but Fletcher really took the biscuit. She conveyed a silent apology in the moments that Draco allowed her to catch his gaze. Through the feigned solemness, he still caught sight of a small smile tugging at her lips.

The morning’s mood was established as a result of her words.

Draco didn’t even consider her delirious accusations. They were nothing more than that: accusations, with no evidence to back them up. Draco had made it clear for the decade he had known Harry Potter. He didn’t care for the man, nor the new world order he supposedly symbolised. The new world order that still hadn’t arrived.

Lunch was an interesting and silent ordeal. It involved Draco and Fletcher playing an unfriendly match of tossing glares at each other, punctuated with wary glances at Potter’s expressionless face. In a matter of seconds, in the length of a short conversation, the ease and light contentment Draco had come to expect in the presence of these two particular colleagues had been lost.

Despite the many, many reasons he didn’t deserve such an easily achieved peace, he wished it would return. If only so Fletcher didn’t continue casting sad looks interwoven with a hint of sadistic pleasure.

They apparated to the stream – thankfully, it was Fletcher who took initiative and side-alonged both of them. Draco couldn’t bear Potter’s touch today. His face was warm enough as it was without the hot touch. Fletcher’s hand was deathly cold.

In tune with an English spring, the afternoon was bitter. Swirling above, the clouds offered nothing but light drizzles of rain, woven with freezing winds that nipped at Draco’s skin. They huddled beneath a tree on top of the hillside, shelter charms cast strategically above as to not leave any noticeably dry patches.

Fletcher perched in the middle of the two men, unsubtly swinging her attention from one to the other instead of observing the case suspects.

“What if these wizards aren’t the perpetrators?” She asked an hour into the surveillance.

“They seem to match the criteria.” Potter said, his tone a fraction stiffer than usual. “A large group of more than ten individuals, magical abilities, we’ve witnessed them carving runic symbols that likely match those at the crime scene, evidence that they’ve been living in the area for several weeks.”

“We can’t ignore the possibility that they’re innocent though.” She argued back, albeit gently.

“I’m aware, Juniper.”

Fletcher shrugged and gave in. “All right, it was only a suggestion…”

There was quiet once more – aside from the rowdy game of tag the younger camp members were playing below.

“This is our only lead for now and it seems promising, so we’ll stick with it.” Potter said. “Of course there’ll be time to explore other leads once we return to the office on Monday.”

Satisfied with the compromise, Fletcher nodded and smiled to herself. This only opened a hundred other possibilities in the case’s solution for her. Fletcher was often a nightmare to work with, especially when all the puzzle pieces of a long case started slotting into their rightful place. She became intensely unreserved about her opinion and theories. A few interns had been spotted literally running away from a case meeting with her. Draco had the advantage of being a friend, but he could still expect to be prodded several times an hour with new links she’d made. Fletcher wouldn’t stop until she sussed out the intricacies of this cult.

However, with her somewhat natural charm, she’d tempted Potter into some light chatting. They talked in quiet voices, discussing some other unsolved case that neither had wrapped their heads around yet. Fletcher was still laid-back about her theories, suggesting she hadn’t yet grasped the case.

It was only when Fletcher had wandered ahead, mentioning something about a faulty charm, that Draco realised he was alone with Potter. Just two men sat side by side under a large oak tree, toying with the idea of being colleagues.

Potter was probably under the irreparable impression that Draco was attracted to him, which Fletcher had so eloquently claimed. The suggestion tickled at Draco’s neck, an uncomfortable feeling rising up. Another itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He really should clear the air. This wasn’t a schoolyard rivalry nor their half-hearted attempts at killing each other.

This was the implication Draco wanted Potter to fuck him into another realm.

He coughed quietly, shifting the bile in his throat.

Now was the perfect opportunity… _to clear the air_. He shouldn’t have awkward situations dangling in the way of a perfectly respectable work relationship. His father had always underlined the importance of balancing politics in a good job. So, here Draco went… reconciling with Harry Potter.

Fuck.

“Potter.” Draco forced his fidgeting hands to stay still in his lap.

The recipient of his incoming apology minutely tilted his head in Draco’s direction and that was enough. It was easier if Draco couldn’t see Potter’s eyes anyway.

“You should know that the conversation Fletcher and I were having earlier…we didn’t— she acts like that sometimes, _obsesses._ ” Draco began, clearing his throat midway. “It was all nonsense, of course. I wanted to ensure this wouldn’t cause any trouble, um, going forward with this case…”

That came out relatively articulately; he almost sounded like his father. Or perhaps, he really didn’t.

“It’s forgotten, Malfoy.” Potter said abruptly.

“Right. Perfect.”

“She and I are not that different.” Potter lifted his head an inch, enough to find Draco’s gaze and hold it for a moment too long. “I suppose I have a history with obsession too.”

Draco swallowed, seeking the implied meaning behind those chosen words. He failed.

To make up for her earlier mistakes, Fletcher came ambling back into earshot, a twig tucked neatly behind her ear. Draco was thankful for the interruption.

“I see. Well, she’d— right.” Draco stared at the mud around her boots, feeling a flush of heat rise to his cheeks. “Fletcher! Did you correct the spell?”

Her eyes scanned the situation momentarily as she nodded, settling upon the correct response. It was a simple, “Yep. I think one of the young ‘uns had wandered out of bounds and set off one of the alerts I’d rigged.”

Potter stood up, brushing his jeans quickly as he did. He rested against the trunk, if only for a second, long enough for Draco’s gaze to skip up his toned body and settle on his glasses.

“Can you, er, show me how those alerts work, Juniper? I haven’t had much experience constructing charms of this type.”

A convincing excuse.

Although, as Draco watched the pair of them walk a few feet closer to the camp, his eyes came to settle on Potter’s arse and he didn’t particularly mind.

The hours ticked by and Fletcher’s shoulder became a steady source of heat as the temperature plunged in the late afternoon. They watched the group, Fletcher played with her tracking spells, Draco brooded over Potter’s words, over his body.

Perhaps, he spent a marginally longer time contemplating how Potter kept in such good shape. From the short glances he tossed in the man’s direction, Draco noted the muscular thighs that filled the denim fabric. Auror work didn’t require that much physical activity, not anymore; most of the miserable creatures spent their time completing paperwork and attending coffee catch ups with ‘important Ministry liaisons’. Potter was in the same boat. So, perhaps he was a runner. No, Draco decided – Potter’s arms were too defined. They, too, bulged against the sleeves of his shirt. It must be some sort of conditioning training, he’d heard muggle gymnasiums were effective for this sort of thing. That was where the 2002 winner of the _Hello! Witches_ magazine‘s Sexiest Wizard award claimed to work out. The safe conclusion to draw was that a body like Potter’s couldn’t be sculpted to such definition without intense work. In fact, Draco had been quite surprised Potter hadn’t snagged the top spot for the fourth year running, when he scooped up his annual copy. Draco’s fingers twitched.

He blinked. 

“I’m going to… use the toilet facilities.” Draco mumbled, noticing a distant throb in his crotch as he scrambled to his feet.

“ _The toilet facilities_?” Fletcher echoed in amusement.

Draco was gone before he could conjure the effort to bite back. He stumbled further into the forest until he was a respectable distance away, before taking care of his business.

A faraway thought drew closer to the forefront of his mind, some obvious truth he didn’t even want to contemplate. So, he remained thoughtless as he trudged back to the observation spot, thankful for once that he wasn’t wearing robes. It was easier to move through the terrain without them, plus he saved several sickles on dry cleaning.

Potter and Fletcher were probably laughing at his ridiculous behaviour as he walked. He was the sore thumb out of the trio, after all – oh _heavens_ , he was not going to fall into the habit of calling them ‘the trio’ again. That came with the implication of friendship and—

“Hello, mister.” A man in his early twenties approached Draco. He looked around the same age, dark skin imbedded with soil and a splatter of blood on the corner of his lips. His black hair grazed his shoulders, looking unwashed and uncombed. Dressed in the same thin robes of the campmates, Draco knew there was no denying this man belonged to the cult.

He fixed a pleasant expression to his face. “Hello there.”

“Are you a…” The man looked around carefully. “ _Mug-gle_? _”_

He pronounced it painstakingly slowly, like a child toying with a new word.

The man certainly had magic; Draco could feel it. Although. it felt fresh, young. Magic like this shouldn’t belong to a twenty-something.

Draco took his time to analyse the lazy smile on the man’s face, categorising it as unthreatening, before carefully uttering his lie.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know what that means.” He answered innocently and offered his hand forward to shake, a favoured custom of muggles. “I’m David Brent. I live in the village over the hill, what’s your name?”

“I’m Ares.” The man shook his hand giddily, the years on his worn face draining away. “Hello, _Da-vid_.”

“Nice to meet you, Ares.” Draco continued as though this was a perfectly normal situation. He hadn’t done undercover work since his probation, one of the many conditions to his freedom was spying on his former ‘comrades’. He intended to never dip his toes into the dangerous waters again. “Are you named after the Greek God Ares?”

The man stared at him, cocking his head to the side. He appeared to ponder it for a moment, then shook his head decisively.

“I don’t know who that is.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgement. “Where do you live, Ares?”

“Just over there.” Ares flapped his arm in the direction of Potter, Fletcher and the camp. He grinned toothily and hopped on the spot. “Can I come visit your house? I’ve never seen a _mug-gle_ house before!”

Narrowing his eyes at the nature of the man’s behaviour, Draco opened his mouth to respond.

But a call drifted through the trees, coming from the camp area. A woman’s voice; it shouted Ares’ name multiple times. The tone was playful, almost that of a mother fetching a mischievous child – Draco had heard that plenty growing up. Regardless, the owner was nowhere to be seen and Draco wasn’t going to risk this case.

He ducked behind a tree while Ares looked nervously toward the sound. By the time, his gaze returned to find Draco, he was left to search the vacated space in confusion.

“Bye, _Dav-id_.” Ares uttered, before skipping in the vague direction of the voice.

How strange.

Draco carefully headed back to their spot, remaining hidden in the shadows and edging from one to another. He saw nobody else as he did. The two group members had merely strayed, it seemed.

The surveillance spot where Potter and Fletcher had previously been lounging was bare. 

There was no trace of them. There was still an imprint in the grass, and the patches of bare soil where Fletcher had ripped all life out with her fingers, plus the small puddle of tea Potter had spilt earlier.

“You’re under that stupid invisibility cloak, aren’t you?” Draco asked the open air, praying to Merlin himself that he wasn’t making a fool out of himself.

Fletcher’s cackle was the first sign of concession. It came from the exact spot they’d been sitting, and Draco exhaled.

The cloak was removed a moment later, revealing Fletcher’s grin and wild hair besides Potter’s own, plus an expression that was bordering on a smile.

“Sorry, Draco. A few of the subjects wandered over.” Fletcher’s apology was lightly dipped in sincerity.

“I just had a conversation with one of the suspects.” Said Draco as he lowered himself back beside her and took his place once again. It was damp.

Potter and Fletcher snapped their heads in his direction, the same question of their lips. _What?!_

“It was the strangest thing. The man – Ares – he seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, a child.” Draco said, expanding. “He was our age. Although, his conversational skills seemed to be level with that of, perhaps, a… five-year-old?”

“What?” Fletcher stared at him.

Draco hummed to himself, still processing all the small hints this might give them. He spotted a familiar head of black hair down below and pointed. “That man, with the medium-length, black hair and dark skin.”

Fletcher grabbed her case notes from her bag and directed her entire capacity of attention to Draco, pen in hand. “Tell me every word you said.”

It wasn’t too shabby, being the centre of her scrutiny, potentially being the pivot point in this case. And having one-to-one communication with one of the cult members? They could have this case solved in a couple of weeks with Fletcher’s problem-solving skills, Draco’s intuition, and Potter’s… brawn.

By the time Draco had answered all the questions Fletcher could conceive on the spot, several pages of paper were filled, a scrawl of ink portraying vague words. They settled back into observation once she’d spiralled into a deteriorating loop of indecipherable mutterings.

And then, Potter said, “Did you really call yourself David Brent? Like from _The Office?!_ ”

Draco looked across at him, finding light amusement dancing across Potter’s stretched lips and the scattering of freckles.

“I’m not uncultured, Potter.”

Potter’s cheeks garnered a light shade of pink as he smiled and nodded. “Apparently not.”

There wasn’t a lengthy chance to appreciate the flustered look with which Draco had been bestowed. Fletcher blocked his view with her fat head and stuck a flow chart in his face to interrupt the moment.

Unfortunately for Draco’s sanity, they then spent the next hour going through her infinitely long train of thought. The sun had set by the time he’d allowed to raise his head and stretch.

It was dark. Perhaps that was the reason Fletcher had decided it was an appropriate time for a momentary break. So, they dug into their dinner, chewing slowly through overcooked rice and semi-raw vegetables as the group below dug into what seemed to be a squirrel. Draco amended his observation as a few more small mammals were pulled into sight. It appeared they were digging into a squirrel, several pigeons, and the half-scavenged leg of a deer (presumably).

Suddenly, Fletcher’s concoction seemed twice as appetising.

Her chatting, meanwhile, began grating on Draco’s patience after a further two hours huddled in the cold. She continued regardless, talking to herself when Potter and Draco’s murmured responses lapsed into stony silence. They were staring out at the group when the moon reached its peak.

Nothing had changed. The group members were either sleeping or gathered tamely around the fire.

So, they packed up, leaving the area as untouched as possible. Slipping further into the wood and a few hundred metres into the woods, they apparated back to the minibus. It was Draco this time, who grabbed Fletcher’s wrist and tentative clutched Potter’s elbow.

Sleep came quickly. Although, Draco’s mind still wandered as he lay there.

_Would Potter sleep tonight?_

}{

It ought to be noted that they were wasting their own weekend and the department’s resources, at this point. These surveillance sessions were not fruitful, and their supposed work wasn’t worth a single Knut of the overtime they were claiming.

Fletcher shook Draco awake at around 10am, risking her own decapitation, and less than an hour later, the three of them were crouched in the same hillside spot, peering down at the group of suspects. Besides the childlike mannerisms they’d discussed in detail already, nothing remarkable was worth observing.

Eyes glazed over, Draco spent the majority of the hours wishing to be with his mother. Neither had much to do over the weekends and habitually met up for afternoon tea, which more often dissolved into Draco spending the entire evening by her side. He found he didn’t need to talk to enjoy his fleeting time with her, a secure bond ensured that even silence was more than they’d ever need from one another. Yet, as mothers did, that didn’t prevent her from quizzing him on the intricacies of his personal life. 

He’d managed to avoid spilling the detailed facts of last weekend’s work trips, which his mother considered personal enough to share (she was an avid fan of Fletcher), but Draco suspected he would not escape his mother’s carefully posed questions this time around. Perhaps, he would bring her some of that chocolate Fletcher adored. A simple bribe was never below a Malfoy. 

“I don’t think it’s worth coming back to observe the group next week,” Potter said into the air, tipping his head up slightly to catch Draco’s eyes and then down to Fletcher. “Are all the necessary spells in place, Juniper? And you’ve taken the photos of all the suspects?”

She nodded firmly, patting her bag. “Yep, the photos are here, and we’ll know if they step even an inch outside of the law… I hope.”

“Does this mean I can make weekend plans going forth?” Draco asked lightly, he might have even described it as a teasing tone.

Potter gave him a short nod, exhaustion lining the small movement. “Go for it, Malfoy.”

“I still don’t understand this case.” Fletcher said, staring down at the group, head tilted to the side.

Potter sighed. “Will we ever?”

}{

“Here,” Potter held out a portkey in the form of a kettle once they were back at the minibus. “The same settings as last time.”

Draco reached out for it, his fingers shaped to clasp it, but then he stopped himself. There was an urge to do something irrational and out of character, it consumed Draco in a tenth of a second and he couldn’t overrule it.

He pushed the portkey back to Potter’s chest and shook his head. “I’ll… I will accompany you in the minibus.”

“Well, this is remarkable character development!” Fletcher clapped her hands together and sauntered towards the van to drag the side door open. “Hop in, Draco the muggle.”

Potter was looking at him curiously and Draco almost didn’t want to move under that gaze. It seemed to be doused in intrigue and surprise, as though Potter had always known who Draco was and this had changed his perspective. Guiltily, Draco thought he didn’t mind that – proving him wrong.

Prompted by another shout from Fletcher inside the van, Draco turned away and headed for the front seat. Potter’s seat dipped beside him and Fletcher was buckled in behind them, some muggle magazine gripping her attention.

“You’re in charge of the music, Juniper.” Potter said over his shoulder.

And then they were off.

The darkness flocked the streets after half an hour of driving, except for the tall lamps that dangled above and the almost-blinding lights that shone out of other vehicles. Fletcher hadn’t made an awful choice with the music, likely taking Draco’s preferences into consideration when she chose the radio station, even if it kept repeating its name. BBC Radio 2 was hardly the worst, it didn’t have any excessively loud or inappropriate music for a Sunday evening and maintained the calm atmosphere he’d been seeking. So, Draco didn’t voice any complaints.

Fletcher read despite the darkness, a small orb of light on the tip of her wand illuminating the words of the latest Quibbler. She occasionally made a comment on a delightfully misguided article, laughing under her breath as she read out the headlines or simply stating “Oh, they got halfway there on this one!”. Draco glanced back when there was a particularly pointed sigh, the kind he associated with Fletcher stumbling across a picture of Luna Lovegood.

He smiled.

Fletcher fell asleep around about the time they passed Yeovil, her copy of the magazine slumped against her chest. She looked innocent, like that. Hardly capable of a complex deterioration curse. Then again, Draco supposed even the Dark Lord would look harmless when he slept – did the creature even sleep? For a long year, it seemed like he never stopped to rest, never needed rest, not until the last hours of his second life.

“Is Juniper asleep?” Potter asked, his eyes flickering up to the mirror that was positioned to hang from the ceiling.

Draco turned back towards the road. “Yes.”

A second passed, and then two.

“What did she do during the war?” asked Potter, “What side—er, where was she?”

“Why? Is it going to change anything?” Draco snapped back quickly.

“No,” Potter said. He repeated it with more strength, “No. I was only curious. It’s hard to tell what people have been through, everybody has trauma.”

“You should be asking her yourself. It’s not my place to spill her secrets.”

“I thought you didn’t know any of her secrets…” Potter retorted, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Draco looked away and scoffed.

“Allow me to rephrase: It’s not my place to tell her story. Nothing about the war is truly secret anymore. Everything she did was made public, and _nothing_ can be hidden from the eyes of the media and the courts when you contribute to the deaths of thousands of people.” He said, folding his arms and staring out of the window. Perhaps the darkness would calm him.

“And you think that’s unfair?” Potter said, a bitter tone underlining the words.

Did Potter not attend the trials? Did he ignore every copy of the fucking Daily Prophet that unveiled the darkest truths of the wrong side? The Death Eaters, the innocent civilians, the people who made awful mistakes – they didn’t get to decide what was kept in the shadows. They still didn’t.

You were either on one side of the revelations or tou were the target. 

“Not at all. Only for people like her—” Draco exhaled audibly. “People like her didn’t deserve to be demonised. They made a number of ill-informed decisions. Maybe they were trying to save their families, trying to save their own necks, Merlin knows. But Fletcher should be allowed to live without the unbearable torment.”

“What about people like you?” Potter asked.

His tone wasn’t challenging. The words were posed as a straight-forward question that hoped for a straight-forward answer. Draco reached for the necklace that was buried beneath his clothes, the one belonging to his mother. He thought of her kindness, how it still existed for him. She could never be a monster in his eyes, and he never in hers. They still had love. So, people like him?

“We deserve everything we get.” Draco said numbly, staring out the window.

There was silence, aside from the mumbled swear words coming from the back seat.

Potter nodded and indicated to a sign that flew past in a blink. “I’m going to stop at the petrol station.”

Draco didn’t say anything as they took the next exit off the road and slowed to a crawl, slotting into a space beside a tall column of coloured advertisements and warnings. The door creaked open and Potter dropped to the floor. With his hand still on the door, he looked over his shoulder and asked another question.

“Coming?”

Those sparkling emerald eyes waited expectantly; they offered a sense of safety and trust. It may all be a deception, but they were patient.

Draco shucked off his seatbelt and slipped out of his door. He walked slowly around the corner, his hand wrapped around his wand – you could never be too sure with Potter – and came face to face with the man.

Potter was stood at the rear of the vehicle, unlocking some small compartment in the side. He lifted a single eyebrow at Draco’s hesitance and beckoned him over.

“So, you just need to hold this,” Potter said, lifting some sort of nozzle off the wall and plugged it into the compartment. He grabbed Draco’s wrist and tugged until Draco took hold of the blasted thing. “And squeeze. It’ll stop automatically. Just put it back on the wall when it’s finished. All right?”

Potter’s hand was still holding his wrist. It was warm. Draco stared at it and nodded.

The touch disappeared and Potter began to walk towards the neighbouring shop. Draco snapped to attention and looked quickly from the handle to Potter. 

“Where are you going?”

Draco cleared his throat. His father would disapprove of the desperation in his voice.

“To pay, Malfoy.” Potter walked backwards, his eyes shining. “Don’t panic.”

“I wasn’t—Potter?”

He’d ducked into the shop, still in sight behind the glass. Draco sighed and turned his attention to the contraption he was holding limply, giving it an experimental squeeze. The entire column jumped to life, a mechanical whirl making Draco jump a few inches into the air. It seemed to whizz through the long piping that connected the column to the nozzle. The fuel, he supposed.

Draco wasn’t scared of a ridiculous muggle invention. So, he squeezed the pump until it refused to inject any more fuel and plugged it clumsily back onto the column, staring wide-eyed at the three other pumps that resided there. Closing the compartment was far more difficult to figure out. After eventually screwing the interior cap back into place, or so Draco hoped, he slapped the exterior flap shut. If all went well, the vehicle wouldn’t combust halfway home.

When he clambered back into the minibus, Fletcher was still sleeping soundly.

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Potter said once he’d returned, taking the large step up into the driver’s seat. “Here.”

A large bottle of orange liquid was shoved in his direction, without much of a choice. Draco took it hesitantly, eyeing the plastic lining, and read the printed words. _Lipton Iced Tea: Peach_. It was the spitting image of a sixth-year’s disastrous attempt at a draught of living death. Draco knew to avoid suspicious substances like these; he’d learnt that the hard way in the summer of fourth year.

“It’s still sealed, there’s no poison.” Potter raised an eyebrow at the hesitance. “I reckon you’d like it actually. Juniper mentioned you might.”

“Did she?” Draco muttered under his breath, casting a look over his shoulder.

Fletcher’s case was admittedly helped by the innocence she expressed while she slept. But Draco had been known to fall for her devilishly laid schemes before. He never fully understood why she hadn’t been sorted in Slytherin, she’d have been an excellent mentor.

Potter’s eyes waited, a hand on the wheel. His body was pointed towards Draco. Was that anticipation Draco sensed in his body language?

Regardless, he unscrewed the cap and took an experimental swig of the liquid. If he died, he died a mortal as all wizards ought to. The Dark Lord had been so scared of death, he had refused to accept the simplicity of it. Draco would welcome it with open arms, instead.

The liquid tasted good as it washed down Draco’s throat and soothed his itchy throat. A fruity flavour swirled around his taste buds for a moment before he took another swig and turned back to Potter with a nod of approval. There certainly wasn’t an overwhelming taste of any popular poisons at least.

“It’s good, right?” Potter actually smiled, opening his own bottle and chugging the iced tea.

Draco’s fingers stilled around his drink, his focus quickly shifting to the bob of Potter’s Adam apple as he swallowed. He noticed the muscles that moved in tandem, Potter’s neck a sickeningly appealing shade of tanned skin.

Green eyes moved to meet his and Draco cleared his throat, looking away.

“Yes, indeed, it’s, um, one of the muggles’ better-made drink concoctions.”

Potter narrowed his eyes slightly, casually switching the minibus’ engine back on with a loud rumble, and moved his hands to settle at the top of the steering wheel. Intent on avoiding the implication of that gaze, Draco shifted his attention to the long fingers that wrapped around the wheel and fidgeted from left to right.

“Do you spend much time in the muggle world, Malfoy?” Potter asked, rolling the minibus forward and veering it gradually back towards the road.

“Certainly more than I used to.” He answered, wary of where his words may land him. Potter’s perception of him seemed to be continuously fluctuating, and Draco was the only one who could steer it vaguely in the right direction.

“Do you need a guide?” Potter was staring at the road now as he tugged the vehicle back into the steady flow of traffic.

Was Harry Potter volunteering to drag a clueless Draco Malfoy around muggle London? That would be a sight to see. Perhaps he could almost envision it: taking the grubby tube, chatting as those escalator contractions lifted them up to ground-level, strolling around the city’s landmarks, stopping for a coffee, Potter’s smile.

No, that was Draco’s overactive imagination.

He folded his arms sceptically and turned to watch the dark trees fly past. Draco was too tired to skirt around the topic and far too reluctant to answer.

“Why?” When no response came, he found Potter’s gaze jumping between the grey concrete ahead and Draco. Shadows slipped over Potter’s face, arching his brow then his lips, painting his features in darkness. “Well?”

“Because it can be beautiful.” Potter answered easily, blinking into the flashing lights of other cars. “Anyway, I’m sure Juniper would be happy to help.”

Draco found himself wishing his imagination hadn’t stretched so far when something in his chest sunk.

“I’ll take your review into consideration.” He said, rotating to face his window.

The remaining hour crawled by, occupied by a specific variety of pop music Draco couldn’t quite categorise. It was soft, led by piano or guitar, and the voices were soothing, singing of the magic of love and the pain and everything between. The songs had a different spark to those in the wizarding world, but they embed themselves into Draco’s heart with the clever lyrics and universal emotions they tugged upon.

He made a mental note of the artists mentioned, vowing to give them a try later. Fletcher would be proud; she might even try to drag him to a few concerts. She did attend those rather frequently, rocking up to the office the next morning, a grin stretched across her worn-out face. Perhaps, Draco did already have a brilliant tour guide, if he’d only ask.

Potter asked for his address once they were on the periphery of London and Draco pushed away the instinctual sarcastic comment, instead opting to recite his address in all its plainness.

Slender hands steered them around the teeming streets, streets that were filled less with cars and more with drunk revellers, celebrating the last evening of the weekend. Draco watched as they soared past pubs he hadn’t seen before and along roads he’d only seen from high above. It was as though they were unravelling the mystery neighbourhood Draco had never bothered to explore, his neighbourhood. In the twinkling streetlights, it was almost captivating. Then they slipped into the wizarding community within, to terrain that was far more familiar yet only a couple of streets long, and Draco was relieved to be home.

The minibus parked up on the roadside. A few faces appeared in the surrounding windows, nobody ever _drove_ down here, but Potter didn’t seem to notice. He remained still as Draco gathered up his bag and unbuckled his seatbelt, clicking the door open.

As Draco dropped to the road, Potter spoke two gentle words.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

Draco looked back, finding friendliness where it had never existed a few weeks ago, and felt his lips twitch upwards.

“Goodnight, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Let me just say, Writing is _hard!_ But I'm doing my best to get the next updates out as soon as possible. I appreciate there may be small errors, despite my vigorous editing, but thank you for sticking this out so far!  
> Stay safe,  
> Niemi
> 
> p.s. I love a bit of Drarry drama


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